Hitting the Wall
by Kelmin
Summary: COMPLETE! A series of traumatic calls leaves Roy angry and frustrated. No main character death, no sex of any kind, but serious topics. If you are sensitive to graphic depictions of accident scenes, this story is not for you.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 1.**

"Roll call in two minutes, boys!"

"Aye aye, Cap!" Chet shouted from the locker room.

"Never miss a chance to kiss up, huh, Kelly," said Johnny, doing up his last button.

"I have my reasons, Gage, I have my reasons. Soon, all will become clear," Chet said dramatically.

"Shoulda called in sick today," muttered Gage. "Will be soon anyhow, if this keeps up."

"Don't you worry your pretty head, Gagey-baby; today, the Phantom has his sights set higher than the likes of you."

Captain Stanley, Mike Stoker, and Roy DeSoto were already waiting in the apparatus bay. The men lined up in the apparatus bay, with Chet and Gage sliding in just in time.

"All right, men. Nothing out of the ordinary on deck for you today," said Captain Stanley. "Just the usual, for a change. Chet, Mike – you get the apparatus bay. Roy, well, I'm sorry to say I don't have a reason to give someone else the latrines, so that's your bad luck today. And, for some more bad luck, John, you're today's chef. And lucky me, I've got a pile of paperwork taller than Mount Rushmore waiting on my desk. So let's get to it, gentlemen. Dismissed!"

Cap turned on his heel and headed to his office.

Chet gestured the others to wait where they were. "Wait for it..." he whispered mysteriously. "Just wait for it..."

"Wait for what?" Johnny asked irritably.

"SSHHH!" hissed Chet. "Any second now..."

Chair legs screeched on the waxed floor. Then, a tremendous, ripping, raspberry sound echoed through the bay, clearly coming from the Captain's office.

The men dissolved in silent laughter, trying to gain control of themselves quickly, as they knew an irate Captain would be returning soon.

Sure enough, seconds later, Hank Stanley emerged from his office, dangling a pinkish balloon-shaped object by its stem.

"Whoopee cushion? _**Whoopee**_ _**cushion**_?" he complained. "I swear, I knew you could be pretty juvenile, Kelly, but this takes the cake. Roy, you're off the hook. Chet – you know where to go. They never should've graduated you from elementary school. Good grief," he muttered to himself as he returned to his paperwork.

An hour into the shift, the tones sounded. "_Squad 51, assist LAPD in checking on the welfare of an individual, 1254 Homestead Drive, 1-2-5-4 Homestead Drive, cross street Mallory. Time out: 0855._"

Stoker responded at the call station while Gage and DeSoto climbed heavily into their squad. They knew that usually when they got a welfare call with LAPD, they were likely to find either an empty home or a fatality. Neither outcome would give them the feeling of having helped someone in trouble.

Thirty minutes later, Gage and DeSoto exited the home at 1254 Homestead, having turned the home's former occupant over to the care of the L.A. County Coroner.

"Not my favorite way to start the day," DeSoto said unnecessarily, as he started up the squad's diesel engine.

"No, can't say it's mine, either," replied Gage. They knew they were of one mind on their opinions of the outcome of this run. They didn't really need to say anything, but also didn't want to sit in silence. It somehow didn't seem right not to say _anything_.

"How are our supplies?" Gage asked, more to have something, rather than nothing, to say.

"We're good," replied his partner. Both men wished they had an excuse to go to Rampart, or anywhere other than back to the station. Their depressing run had put them out of the mood of wanting anything to do with pranks, housekeeping, cooking, or, to be honest, anything at all. They drove in silence for a minute or two, half listening to the radio chatter.

Then they heard the familiar combination of pitches that called their station.

"_Engine 51, Squad 36 in place of Squad 51, motor vehicle accident with injuries, 3554 Carson, 3-5-5-4 Carson, cross street Nevada. Ambulance is responding. Time out: 0940._"

The paramedics heard the address, and realized that they must have forgotten to report in as available.

"L.A., this is Squad 51; we are now available and can respond to Engine 51's location, with an ETA of seven minutes," Johnny said into the radio's hand-held transmitter.

"_10-4, Squad 51. Squad 36, cancel_," they heard over the radio.

The squad reached the scene first, but they could hear the engine's siren approaching quickly. Roy jumped down from the squad. He ran to the two vehicles involved in the accident. The two occupants of the first vehicle had already gotten out of their car, which had been heavily rear-ended by the second. The two young men did not appear to be seriously injured, but Johnny ran to check them, as Roy headed to the other vehicle. The second vehicle appeared to have just one occupant. Roy carried the biophone over to the driver's side of the crumpled sedan, and approached the driver through the window.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" A middle-aged man was slumped forwards on the steering wheel. The windshield was shattered. Blood poured from the man's head onto the dashboard. Roy reached in to get a carotid. It was there, but weak.

Roy could feel the rumble of the engine pulling up near the wreck.

"Marco, disconnect battery cables. Chet, wash down the scene with the reel line," instructed Captain Stanley. "Stoker, give Roy a hand."

"Mike? I'm gonna need a backboard, O2, and a C-collar!" called Roy. "And he's pinned in here real good – we're gonna need the Jaws for sure." He began taking the vitals he could get with the man still trapped in the vehicle, and called in to Rampart.

"Rampart, this is County 51, how do you read?"

"_Go ahead, 51_," Dr. Brackett's voice came on immediately.

"We have one MVA victim, male, approximately 35 years of age. He has an apparent depressed skull fracture, left temporoparietal region. He is currently pinned by the steering column, and is unconscious. Airway is patent. Pulse is 50 and weak, respirations are 10 and irregular, BP is 140 over 80. Right pupil is blown." Roy reported his findings efficiently, but without showing emotion. There was every indication of a serious brain injury, but at that moment, his job was to do what he could for this patient.

"_Understood, 51. Is it possible in the patient's present position to hyperventilate with O2? Can you start an IV?_"

"Affirmative on the O2, negative on the IV, Rampart. Engine is on scene, and extrication has begun, with C-spine precautions in place."

"_10-4, 51. When the victim is extricated, get me a new set of vitals, and start an IV, D5W TKO with a drip rate of 25 milliliters per hour._"

Roy did his work, getting as much oxygen into the patient as possible, as the rest of the team worked to pull the steering column off the man's chest. Johnny, having checked the two occupants of the other car, joined Roy. He read Roy's notes, grimaced, and squeezed into the tight space of the remains of the passenger's seat to stabilize the man's head and neck against the vibrations of the power tools being used on the car.

Finally, with a resounding "crack," the dashboard of the crushed vehicle gave way as the steering column finally peeled back, leaving just enough room to slide the man out. Johnny helped Roy to get the man onto the backboard. They carefully slid their gravely injured patient from the car.

"Johnny, see if he has a wallet, get some ID," Roy said, as he began getting a new set of vitals. He shook his head as he wrote the findings on his notepad. At the same time, Johnny found the man's wallet, and tossed it to Captain Stanley. Cap had caught the shake of Roy's head, and knew that he had to try to reach the man's family – if there was one – and fast.

Roy talked into the biophone again, while Johnny started to set up the IV.

"Rampart, patient is extricated. New vitals: BP 155/80, pulse 45 and irregular, respirations irregular and labored. Patient is exhibiting extensor posturing." The abnormal body movements Roy was describing were clear to Johnny as he tried to start an IV.

"Roy, I'm not getting a vein on either arm," said Johnny.

Almost at the same time, Roy said, in alarm, "No pulse! Start CPR!"

Roy grabbed the biophone. "Rampart, we've lost his pulse, and are starting CPR. We haven't been able to get a vein to start an IV."

"_51, continue CPR and send me a strip_."

Roy set up the EKG leads as Johnny continued with CPR. They exchanged a grim look. They both knew how unlikely it was that anything they did at this point would make a difference in the outcome for this patient, and they both knew what that outcome was likely to be.

Roy connected the EKG leads to the monitor. "Stop CPR," he called. John stopped the compressions. The line on the monitor was flat.

"Rampart, we read asystole. What are your instructions?" But Roy knew perfectly well what the instructions were going to be.

"_51, continue CPR and transport._"

So they did.

Once they reached Rampart, the paramedics turned the man over to Brackett. Both men were exhausted from trading off on the futile CPR in the ambulance. Chet or Marco would bring the squad in after the engine crew had finished clean-up at the accident site, so the paramedics knew they had some time before they had to call in as available.

"Coffee?" Johnny asked Roy.

Roy did not answer. He was looking at the ER waiting room, where a woman, about 30 or 35, with two young children in tow, had just arrived. She frantically ran to the desk.

"My husband, Frank Parker, I got a call from the fire department that he was in an accident and they were bringing him here. Oh please," she cried, "can you tell me anything?"

Roy stared, watching the children – a boy and a girl – as the nurse at the desk helped the woman to a seat in the waiting room. _The desk nurse had the easy job_, he thought – _Brackett would get the hard one in a few minutes_. He started over to the woman, whose life would come crashing down around her as soon as Brackett emerged from Treatment 4.

Johnny grabbed him gently by the shoulder. "Roy, don't," he said softly. "Just don't." He tried to turn Roy around, but Roy shrugged him off violently. He didn't continue towards the waiting room, but just stood there, staring.

"C'mon, man. You don't need to see this," said Johnny. He took Roy's arm again, and this time, Roy let himself be led away, to the ER staff lounge. On their way, they passed Brackett coming out of Treatment 4. Dr. Brackett met their downcast eyes with his own, and gave them the quick head shake they expected, and headed to the waiting room to deliver the bad news.

In the lounge, Johnny sat Roy down at the table and set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He sat next to his silent partner with his own mug of the dark brew. It smelled like it had been on the burner all night.

Johnny didn't try to say anything to Roy. Really, there was nothing he _could_ say. He knew how much Roy was affected by any call where someone died, let alone a call where the patient's family reminded him so much of his own.

Roy shoved his chair back from the table and began to pace, still saying nothing. He stopped at the far wall of the lounge, and stood there, with his forehead on the wall.

"It's not right," he said, breaking the silence. "We just did CPR on a corpse for twenty minutes. We ran him here in an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens screaming 'Out of our way, everyone! We have a patient to save!' And _you_ knew, and _I_ knew, and _Brackett_ knew, that everything we did was going to be useless."

Johnny didn't say anything. He knew his partner well enough to know that Roy wasn't done yet – that there was something else other than the death of their patient that was bothering him. So he waited.

"Yeah, we made a valiant effort, all right. The big heroes, with all their fancy equipment, to the rescue!" He turned to face his partner. "Luckily, during our valiant rescue, we didn't plow into any other vehicles and kill anyone else, for the sake of keeping blood moving in our dead patient till a big grown-up doctor could tell us kids what we already knew!"

The men both froze as they heard a wailing cry from the ER waiting room.

"Doesn't Brackett have an office?" spat Roy. "Did he have to give her that news in the waiting room? Sometimes that man has no common sense – none!" He turned back to the wall, chest heaving.

Johnny stood back, giving Roy the room he needed.

Without warning, Roy pulled his fist back, and punched a hole in the wall. Johnny flinched at the sound of at least one of Roy's hand bones snapping.

**TBC**

A/N: According to the Centers for Disease Control's Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, February 28, 2003 / 52(08);154-156, "between 1991-2000, 300 fatal crashes occurred involving occupied ambulances, resulting in the deaths of 82 ambulance occupants and 275 occupants of other vehicles and pedestrians. The 300 crashes involved a total of 816 ambulance occupants."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 2.**

Johnny realized it was time to stop giving Roy any more space. He eased his stunned partner over to the sofa and sat him down. Roy was cradling his broken hand, but not saying anything or even looking at anything or anyone.

Johnny rushed to the fridge in the staff lounge and rummaged around in the freezer compartment. "Damn it, you'd think in the hospital they'd have an ice pack..." He opened the lounge door and looked out. Dixie was at the nurses' station. "Hey Dix, you got an ice pack?"

Dixie looked over to the lounge doorway, wondering what had happened. She grabbed a bag, wrapped it in a towel, went to the ice machine at the back of the ER hallway to fill it, and brought it over to the lounge. She found "her" paramedics sitting on the couch silently. "What did you do this time, Johnny?" she asked, assuming that Gage, the accident-prone one of the pair, had had another of his frequent mishaps.

"It's him," said Johnny, pointing to Roy's already-swelling hand.

"What on Earth?" exclaimed Dixie. "Roy, that hand looks broken! What happened?"

Roy still stared at the floor, and did not reply. Johnny pointed to the hole in the wallboard and made a punching motion. Dixie's jaw fell open. Of all the paramedics she knew, Roy seemed to her the least likely to lose control of his emotions and punch a wall. Some people might put Craig Brice at the bottom of that list, but to Dixie, it seemed like he could snap at some point, if things didn't go according to his careful arrangements.

Dixie carefully lifted Roy's hand, and placed it on a pillow, setting the cloth-wrapped ice pack gently on the back of his hand. She put her arm cautiously around his hunched shoulders, not sure if he'd accept her presence.

Dixie had seen the men bring in the accident victim a few minutes ago, and knew that the man had not survived. And, she had been at the nurses' station when Brackett gave the family the bad news. She realized that something about the case was extremely disturbing to Roy.

The three of them sat together, silently, for several minutes. Nobody knew quite what to do. Finally, Johnny couldn't take any more inaction, and stood up.

"Well, pal, I guess you're gonna need a splint. Dix," asked Johnny, "mind if I snag one from your station?" Dixie shook her head, and Johnny headed to the nurses' station to find the supplies he needed.

"Roy?" Dixie asked gently. "What's going on?"

Roy continued to stare at nothing. But, after a few moments, he turned to face Dixie. "This whole thing was a travesty," he said, barely audibly. "A sick play, from start to finish."

Dixie didn't press him – she knew when silence was more useful than words in getting people to talk.

"Sacrilegious – that's the word. To take a human who has just died, pound on his chest for twenty minutes, parade him through L.A., and drop him here _nearly_ in time for his wife and kids to see us do our precious work – it's disrespectful of life, Dix." Roy let out a shaky breath. "Plus, we could've killed someone on our way. A hot response, lights and sirens, with a dead man? Something's wrong with that picture."

_Have to agree with him there, _Dixie thought. _Gotta be more to this, though._

"And then for Brackett to give the guy's wife the worst news of her life, right there in the waiting room full of drunks, people with hangnails, and all the drama junkies who love to hang out in the ER? Ah, Dix, I'm so sick of it all." He rubbed his face with his good hand, and continued.

"Did you see the wife? Did you see how much like Joanne she looked? And the kids? They could've been ours – same ages and everything. And Brackett just put her grief on display for the world."

_And there it is_, thought Dixie. _He's imagining Joanne getting that news someday._ She thought carefully about her next words. "Roy, I have to tell you, I agree wholeheartedly with your reservations about a hot response for certain cases. But it's not up to you and me – it's Kel and Joe who have to make those decisions. And the law says that until the person is pronounced dead by a doctor, once you start treating, you don't stop."

Roy hissed in frustration. "Yeah, but Dix, the call we had right before that? It was a 'check on the welfare' with LAPD. And guess what? There was nothing we could do for her, either – maybe we could've done something three days ago, but not this morning. And nobody questioned our not treating _her_. Nobody made us run _her_ in hot. I know, I know, it's not the same – but there has to be some middle ground."

"The fact is, Roy, the law isn't so good at gray areas. Life isn't black and white. And neither is death. Until someone changes the law, we're stuck with it," Dixie said.

"Yeah, and I'm stuck with my hand in a cast for six weeks to think about it," Roy said heavily. "Man, what was I _thinking_? What a stupid stunt – something you might expect from my partn—"

"Okay, pal, got your splint here. Let's get this done so you can get x-rayed." said the object of Roy's last comment, as he burst into the room. He looked at his friends, who had suddenly gone silent. "What?"

"Nothin', Junior. Let's get this over with."

"Gentlemen, I believe I'll alert Dr. Brackett to expect a patient, if you'll excuse me," said Dixie.

Johnny quickly and professionally applied a cardboard splint to Roy's hand and wrist. "You okay?" he asked. "You've got me worried, pal."

Roy's brow furrowed. "Feeling pretty stupid, right about now," he admitted. "I can't believe I just did that. Captain Stanley's gonna be furious.

"Well, I'll tell ya somethin', Roy – I'm pretty upset about this one too. We lost our patient – that feels bad enough. But to have to keep on with the CPR when we all knew he was gone – that's even worse. Not 'cause I'm lazy, that's not it," Johnny defended himself, "but it just isn't right... I can't even really explain why, either. It's just not. Even in this case, where there weren't family members there who were being given false hopes by our actions. It just felt wrong."

Johnny continued – Roy was actually listening to his rant, for a change. "And you're right – I hadn't even thought about it till you mentioned it before you put your fist through the wall, but it puts lives at risk every time we're running hot. I mean, we've seen a few ambulance accidents before – even been in 'em. It just doesn't sit right, does it?"

Roy sighed. "Well, I guess I'll have plenty of spare time to talk to Brackett about this, since I'm probably gonna be suspended, huh."

Johnny frowned. "Nah, I don't think Cap'll suspend you. You're not exactly known as a hot-head who needs to be taught a lesson about self control, ya know."

"I sure didn't have much self control a few minutes ago, Johnny, and look where it got me." Roy pointed ruefully at his splinted wrist and hand. "Anyhow, even if he doesn't suspend me, I don't think I can do the job one-handed, can I? So I'll get some desk duty. Serves me right."

_He looks like he needs a couple weeks of doing something else anyhow_, Johnny thought, but for once was wise enough not to voice his thought. "C'mon, let's get your hand x-rayed."

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 3.**

Roy allowed himself to be led from the lounge to Treatment 2 by his junior partner.

"Hey, uh, Roy? Don't take this the wrong way," said Johnny, "but do you want me to see if I can get Dr. Early to work on ya instead of Brackett?" He helped Roy onto the gurney.

Roy sighed. "Nah, I'm a big boy; I think I can fight my own battles. Probably better if I don't start trying to avoid him, anyhow. Gotta talk to him about this run sometime, and no time like the present, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. And also, I totally agree with you about this run – but I just don't think anything we paramedics say or do is gonna change how the rules work, ya know?"

"Well, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Johnny. I mean, Brackett was dead set against the paramedic program at first, but sure came around when he realized it would work. So maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to see the point about the hazards of a lights and siren transport of someone without a chance. But, policy and procedure would have to change, for sure, and that takes time and effort."

"As usual, I can't argue with your logic, partner."

"Well, you could try, but you wouldn't get far."

Johnny fake-scowled, and then raised his index finger. "Hey, do you want me to give Joanne a call? I mean, I won't tell her exactly what happened, just that you're getting your hand x-rayed."

_Oh, yeah – Joanne. Gotta tell her sometime... _"Sure, Johnny, thanks. I guess she'll probably have to come pick me up, too."

"Okay, I'll go call her from the nurse's station. Anyhow, I don't wanna stick around to hear you yell when they set that thing." Johnny shuddered, thinking about the many fractures he had acquired during his years of work, and swooped out of the room.

"Hi Doc, Hi Doc," he said to Drs. Early and Brackett, who were just on their way to see Roy.

"John, there you are. Do you have a second?" Dr. Early asked. "I'd like to talk to you if you have a minute."

Johnny frowned in confusion, but nodded. "Sure – but I just told Roy I'd call Joanne – can we talk after? Like maybe while the x-rays are getting developed?"

"Sure thing, John. We'll go check on Roy, and then I'll look for you in a minute or two." replied Early.

"'kay – I'll be around." Johnny left for the nurses' station phone. He figured Early probably wanted to talk about Roy's reaction, but wasn't really sure why it was Early, not Brackett, who had questions for him.

Johnny stared at the phone for a few seconds. _Guess I better get it over with. _He punched "9" to get an outside line and then dialed the DeSotos' number.

Joanne picked up after two rings. "Hello?"

"Hey, Joanne, Roy's fine, it's Johnny." He knew from years of experience that when you called a fireman's wife while he was on duty, you put the "fine" part first, and _then_ said who you were. "Well, pretty much fine – he had a little, um, accident, and we think he broke his hand."

"Oh, no! How'd he do that?" was her natural response.

_Crap. Of __**course**__ she'd ask how he did it. _ "Um, well, he actually, uh, that is... he..."

"Spill it, Johnny," Joanne said firmly.

"Punched the wall," Johnny said quickly. "Shoot, I told him I wouldn't tell you."

"Well, you should've known better. Now," she said in a no-nonsense tone, "no B.S., please – what happened?"

Johnny scratched his head. "Well, we had two real bad runs in a row – the last one was a guy in a car wreck; he didn't make it but we – ah, heck, Joanne, I think you oughta let him tell you. I'll just mess it up like I always do."

"Hey, I thought I said no B.S.," Joanne replied lightly. "But, I suppose you're right – I guess I should come down to Rampart, right?"

"Yeah, prob'ly so. Um," he hesitated, "is there any way you could _not_ tell him that I told you how it happened?"

Joanne laughed. "I think after twelve years of marriage I can find a way to ask him without lying and saying I already know what he did. Anyhow, I'll be down in, say, half an hour – I have to arrange for someone else to pick the kids up from school, but then I'll be right down. Tell him I'll be here soon, and I love him, okay?"

"Sure thing, Joanne." They hung up. _Whew. Now talking to the doc oughta be a piece of cake. Speaking of which..._

"Ah, Johnny, there you are. Let's go to my office," said Joe Early.

Johnny followed him to the small office he shared with three other ER physicians in the back of the Emergency department.

"Have a seat, John. You're probably wondering why I called you in here. You see," said Early, "a little bird told me that Kel didn't handle the family notification very well after your tough run this morning."

_All becomes clear._ "And, was that little bird, by any chance, whistling Dixie?"

"Yes, after she told Kel that we suddenly had a new patient, she gave me a double earful about why Roy was so upset. So, I wanted to get your take on it – about what you thought of how he handled the family."

Johnny squirmed in his chair. "Uh, Doc, I'm not exactly sure it's any of my business. Plus, why do you want _my_ opinion? I'm just, you know, _**me**_."

"First of all, I want your opinion _because_ you're _you_ – you're the one I can count on to give me an honest, emotional reaction to something. And second of all, you saw the same things Roy saw, and didn't punch a hole in a wall, so I think maybe I'll get a more objective opinion from you."

_Okay... no pressure here_. "Well, I still don't see as how it's any of my business."

Early looked at Gage intently. "The thing is, John, the nurse at the desk spoke to me, and also told me that another patient in the waiting room thought that Kel was, quote, 'cruel,' to tell the family in the ER waiting room like that. So I'd like to know what you saw. Plain and simple – just the facts. Feel free to pace if that will make it easier."

With that permission, Johnny leapt out of his chair and began a circuit of the small room. "Ya see, doc, I couldn't actually even hear what he was saying – we were already in the lounge at that point – but I know he musta told the woman her husband didn't make it, right there in the waiting room. With her kids there too. And that's just not right. I mean, you gotta have some privacy for that kinda thing. And, she might wanna tell the kids her own way, ya know?"

Early nodded. "I agree. I've had this discussion with Kel a number of times. And it came up at this month's department meeting. The only valid point I felt he made was that we just plain don't have room for a private area for these situations. But, it seems that most of the time, either Kel's office or the staff lounge could be used."

"Sure, why not?" said Johnny. "I mean, anyone working in the department would understand."

Johnny paced another circuit around the room. "Doc, there's somethin' else, though."

Early nodded. "I thought there might be, from what Dixie said. Go ahead – this will be between you and me."

"Nah, that's all right – it's not about Dr. Brackett or anything. But anyhow, you know, there have been a couple of times just that Roy and I have seen where ambulances have gotten into crashes, right? And it seems like, when there's someone like the guy we brought in this morning – flatline EKG, severe brain injury – I mean, is there any chance for someone to come back from that? _Any_ chance? I guess I kinda thought when there's all the signs of increasing intracranial pressure, and brainstem involvement, and then the guy flatlines – is it worth the risk to the public, and to everyone in the ambulance, to bring him in hot? 'Cause that's when the accidents happen, Doc."

"John, you're absolutely right about the patient – there is minimal chance for recovery when a brain injury patient flatlines. I suspect the autopsy in this case will show brainstem herniation into the spinal column, which is simply not repairable. However, the transport issue is really something to take up with Dr. Brackett – he's the medical director for L.A. County's Paramedic program, and this matter sounds like a policy change that needs to happen."

Johnny flopped into the chair again, and slumped his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. It's just that him and I – well, he's not the easiest guy for a fella like me to talk to. I always feel like, I dunno, a dumb Indian straight from the rez, when I talk to him."

Early frowned. "Johnny, I assure you that nobody here sees you like that. You certainly show us your, ah, goofy side quite often, but everyone here has the highest respect for your work. Even Kel. In fact, especially him."

Early leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. "Do you remember, about a year into your and Roy's partnership, the incident where radio communications were lost, and Roy was in the ambulance with a patient who started to aspirate? Dixie and Kel defended Roy left and right to the patient's private physician. And they weren't just talking about Roy – they were talking about _all_ of you paramedics. Later, Kel talked to me about the whole thing – he said that Dixie told the other doctor something along the lines of how you paramedics treat people in situations that would make anyone else's hair curl, were her words, I think.

"And Dix's words really hit home with all of us. When we get a call from you at the base station, what we hear is the medical details. What we _don't_ hear on the radio are the details of where you are, and what is going on around you. So we started reading some of your reports.

"On the radio, you calmly tell us things like you're rescuing an injured hiker, but what you don't tell us – because it's not medically relevant – is that there's a brush fire ten minutes from your location. Or, you tell us that you have a patient with a possible broken leg, but not that he's in a collapsing cave, and that you're in there with him. Because that's not medically relevant.

"But, you have a valid, and medically relevant, point in questioning today's run. At this time, the physician cannot legally direct you to discontinue treatment. However, we absolutely need to discuss a change to the transport policy, of running with lights and sirens when a patient is considered critical. Because there's a big difference between a heart-attack patient in v-fib who has a hope of resuscitation, and a patient with a brain injury and a flat EKG. And I agree that we should not be risking other lives to expedite the transport such a patient."

Johnny sat and looked at Dr. Early. "Wow. Okay. Thanks." He sighed. "But I guess we still have to talk to Dr. Brackett, huh."

Joe Early smiled at Johnny, as he wondered what was behind Johnny's apparent lack of self confidence. "Yes, you do. But I think that if you, Roy, and some of the other experienced paramedics put your heads together, you should be able to come up with a reasonable proposal that he would listen to. Really, transporting a patient should be thought of just like any other medical procedure: do the potential benefits outweigh the risks? Except in this case, there are risks to people other than just the patient. Pedestrians, other motorists, and all the people in the ambulance are at risk as well."

"Food for thought, Doc. Food for thought. I'll see what other guys I can get on this. Sounds like maybe Roy will be out for a few weeks, huh?"

"Well," replied Early, "let's go see. His x-rays should be back by now. His hand certainly did look broken, though, didn't it."

"Yeah," sighed Johnny. "Man, he's like the last guy I would ever expect to punch a hole in a wall. He wouldn't even really talk to me – there's gotta be somethin' else besides just being upset about the run, and pissed at Brackett – um, sorry, Doc."

Early made a dismissive motion. "Don't worry, John – I've heard worse than that. Come on, let's go see about Roy."

**TBC**

**A/N: **How did this story happen? Two real life tableaux collided in my brain:

1) At my favorite local deli, my friendly neighborhood sandwich maker, a 20-ish guy, sported a cast on his hand. He said he broke the hand bone on the pinky side, and since the brakes between my brain and my mouth don't work, I asked him what he punched! He was all, like, "are you House MD or something? I punched the deli case." And then (2) On a recent home-visit I made to a local apartment complex, the cops and paramedics were there apparently for a welfare check, and it appeared that the person was deceased. Put those two together in my bored commuting brain, and boom! a story...


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 4.**

"Well, Roy, I'll have to see the x-rays to be sure, but this looks like a classic boxer's fracture," Dr. Brackett said to Roy.

Roy sat sullenly on the gurney. "Yeah, pretty stupid, huh."

Brackett scrutinized his senior paramedic. "What got into you, anyhow?

Roy sighed, and looked away. _Yeah, but no time like the present_. "Doc, I'm gonna be totally straight with you."

That got Brackett's attention. "Okay, Roy, I'm listening." He stood there with arms folded, a gesture which some people would take as hostile, but that Roy recognized as Brackett's way of just keeping his distance and showing that he was paying attention.

Roy continued. "The way you told that woman her husband was dead? In front the whole world, in the waiting room? Unacceptable, plain and simple." He looked Brackett in the eye. "All I could think about was, someday you might be giving that news to Joanne. And anyone getting that kind of news deserves more respect and compassion than you dished out today. After doing CPR on a corpse for twenty minutes, then coming in and hearing that, well, Doc, I just plain lost it."

Roy had never seen Brackett turn white before. He wasn't sure if it was anger or shock, or some combination thereof, that caused the dramatic color change.

"Come on, DeSoto, you know I would take care of Joanne and the kids. You don't think I'm _that_ low, do you?"

"Well, Doc, don't you think everyone deserves the same consideration you'd offer my family in that situation? If you could do it for my wife, why not the wife of the guy we brought you this morning?"

Brackett backed away from Roy to get his bearings. He didn't say anything, not for several minutes. Roy started to worry that he'd really blown it, but then, on consideration, he really didn't care. Hell, he'd probably be suspended for a while anyhow, for a self-inflicted injury that would cost the department a sub for several weeks. Even if Cap didn't sock it to him, someone above him probably would – there were plenty of administrators who really had it in for paramedics, and would take any chance to sock it to the program in general, or one man in specific. And, as the most senior paramedic in the county, Roy knew he was a prime target.

"I'll tell you something else, Doc. Every married firefighter I know has the image go through his head of his wife someday Getting The Call." Brackett could practically hear the capital letters in that phrase.

Roy continued. "There's a lotta ways it can happen – someone showing up at your door, someone calling you on the phone and saying 'you have to come to Rampart right now,' – and none of those ways are any good. But the idea that someone you consider a friend and a mentor might deliver bad news in a way like you did today? Doc, my blood just boiled."

Roy's voice was cracking, and was only slightly louder and higher pitched than his usual calm tones, but Brackett knew Roy well enough to know that even when Roy was upset – or perhaps _especially_ when he was upset – his tone stayed level and controlled.

Brackett was thinking about what Roy had said: "_Don't you think everyone deserves the same consideration?"_ And he couldn't think of any rational reason why the answer should be anything other than "yes."

But he just couldn't bring himself to admit to Roy that he was wrong. The moment where it would have been easiest for Kel to say "You're right," or "I'm sorry," or any of those small but important words, came and went, and Brackett had not said anything.

And the moment was lost altogether, as the x-ray tech knocked on the door, and came in with the pictures. He left again as soon as Dr. Brackett had snapped the pictures up on the light box and nodded to the tech that the x-rays were acceptable. As the tech left, he held the door for Dr. Early and Johnny.

"So, Kel, what's the verdict?" asked Early. Joe and Kel looked at the x-ray, drew some lines on it with a straight-edge, and measured some angles.

Johnny, though, didn't say anything – he looked at Roy's expression, looked at Brackett's turned back and could see the tightness across the back of his white coat. _Uh oh._

Johnny went back over to Roy. "Hey." He looked back down at Roy's hand, now unwrapped, and looking more swollen and misshapen by the minute. "How's that doing?"

"Probably doesn't hurt quite as much as I deserve, I guess. Can't wait till they set it – then it'll probably hurt enough to make me feel better."

_Whoa_. "Uh, Roy?"

Roy looked at him blankly.

"You're acting more than a little strange, pal," Johnny said quietly enough that Early and Brackett, looking at the x-rays, were not meant to hear.

Roy shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"So, um, yeah—I called Joanne – she'll be over in half an hour or so."

Roy snorted lightly. "And how long did it take her to get it out of you that I did this to myself?" he asked, knowing that Joanne wouldn't fall for even highly skilled evasion, and that his partner's evasive maneuvers were pathetically amateurish up against his wife's perceptive abilities.

"Oh, not too bad – nearly three seconds, I'd say," admitted Johnny.

"Figured," said Roy.

Early and Brackett finished their consultation by the light box. Joe returned to the exam area, while Kel took his opportunity to leave silently.

"Roy, it's pretty much what we thought – classic boxer's fracture – neck of the fifth metacarpal. The degree of angulation is right on the borderline for pinning it, so we're going to have someone from orthopedics come down to take a look," said Dr. Early. "I just talked to Dr. Henry; he'll be down in about fifteen minutes. He said to get started on numbing that hand up."

"Okay," said Roy. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he was starting to sweat.

"You want something for the pain in the meantime?" asked Dr. Early. "That's gotta be smarting pretty good by now."

"No thanks," said Roy. Johnny rolled his eyes.

"Suit yourself, Roy," said Dr. Early. "John, we're down a nurse, would you mind giving me a hand? You know where everything is anyhow."

"Sure thing, Doc," said Johnny. "Um, ya know, I don't usually do this stuff – what needle gauge do ya want?" he asked.

"27 gauge, intermediate bevel," said Early, "second drawer, and we'll go with the 2% lidocaine."

Johnny headed to the cabinet and got out a vial of lidocaine, a syringe, and some alcohol prep wipes. He loaded up the syringe as Dr. Early washed his hands at the sink.

"You know, Roy, you can always talk to me if there's something on your mind," said Dr. Early.

"Thanks, Doc. Soon," said Roy.

"All right, Roy," said Early. "I'm going to block your ulnar nerve at the wrist. The lidocaine will sting a good bit when it goes in."

"Okay," said Roy.

"Geez, Roy – keep up talking like that and people are gonna start mistaking you for Stoker," said Johnny, trying to lighten the mood.

Dr. Early took Roy's wrist gently, and prepped the skin and let it dry. He found the anatomical landmarks for the ulnar nerve. "Okay, John," he said, and Johnny passed him the loaded syringe.

Roy sat impassively as Dr. Early found the nerve with the needle and shot the lidocaine home.

"All right, let's leave that to work for a while," said Early. "Oh, and John, Dr. Henry said he'd like to say hello to you if you're still here."

"Hey, great!" Dr. Henry knew Johnny well, having treated a broken leg Johnny sustained in a building explosion a couple years previously. "We're stuck here till someone comes with the squad anyhow, and the guys definitely had some mopping up to do at the accident site – lots of gas and glass. 'Spose I better go see if Chet or Marco's on the way, too – be right back, Roy."

Joe and Roy watched with mild amusement as Johnny bounced his way out of the room.

"Doc – no offense, but could I have a minute on my own?" asked Roy.

"Sure. Don't forget – if you feel like talking, you know where to find me," said Dr. Early, as he left Roy to brood.

* * *

Johnny passed the nurses' station, wondering where Dixie was.

"Hey," he asked Betty, the next most senior nurse after Dixie, "have you seen Dix anywhere?"

The nurse grimaced slightly. "She just dragged Dr. Brackett into his office. I don't know what he did, but I sure wouldn't want to be him right now."

Johnny silently agreed – he'd never been on the wrong end of a truly angry Dixie, but he could imagine it wouldn't be pretty. "Okay, thanks. I'm just gonna go wait outside for my squad, I think. Get some fresh air."

"John – you're forgetting this is L.A. – there's no such thing," Betty reminded him.

"True," he said, "but I guess I'll go out anyhow. More room to pace. Man, that partner of mine..."

Betty smiled to herself as Johnny strode down the hallway shaking his head. _Backwards Day at Rampart,_ she thought –_ nurses chewing out doctors, and John Gage's mind boggling over his partner's behavior_.

Johnny went out to the ambulance entrance, and paced the parking lot for a while before perching on a railing. He breathed in a deep lungful of outside air, and was reminded of Betty's comment. He looked to the south, noting how the clear blue sky faded to a rusty orange at the horizon. As he watched the access road to the south of the hospital, he saw the familiar shape of the squad pulling into the parking lot, under the supporting piers of the building, and into an ambulance bay. Chet was at the wheel. Johnny waved to him from his perch to get his attention, and Chet parked the squad and headed over.

"Hey, Gage." Chet could tell from Johnny's face not to ask whether the patient had made it. "Where's DeSoto? Is he all right? He takes these things awful hard."

"Yeah, well, the wall took it harder," replied Johnny.

"Huh?"

"Yep, it's true—Mr. Calm just lost a one-hitter quitter with some sheetrock in the staff lounge," said Johnny.

Chet's jaw dropped. "You're shittin' me! Roy punched a wall out?"

"Nope, no manure. Busted his hand. They're gonna set it pretty soon. Not my favorite activity, but I think I oughta be there," said Johnny. "No matter how much lidocaine they shoot you up with it still hurts like a gunshot. Nasty sound, too. They're down a nurse today, plus, I figure I owe Roy for all my boo-boos he got me through. They always need a coupla guys to pull. Gonna come in and help out?" He looked at Chet inquiringly.

"Uh-uh, no fuckin' way, man. Oops, sorry, Miss," Chet said to a passing nurse. "Plus, you're right—Roy's held your hand through so much shit that it's your turn."

"Yeah. Better get to it. Hey, can you call Cap and see about a sub? At least he won't ask _you_ how you didn't manage to stop him."

"Oh, crap – Cap's gonna have a cow. Is that an automatic suspension?" asked Chet.

"Dunno – he'll definitely be on light duty for at least a few weeks, depending." Johnny looked at his watch. "Shoot – better get back – wouldn't wanna miss the fun. Oh, and hey, keep your eyes open for Joanne, will ya?"

* * *

Johnny knocked on the door of Treatment 2 and stepped in. He broke into a grin when he saw Dr. Henry. "Well hey, Doc! Been awhile, thank goodness!"

"Mr. Gage! I trust you're well, and that the leg is holding up?"

"Sure thing, Doc – it's a bit weather-wise, but other than that, I don't pay it any mind."

"Okay, that's excellent." Henry turned his attention back to Roy. "Mr. DeSoto, this should be fairly routine – I don't see a need to pin this fracture, so let's get down to business. This is a two-person job – would you prefer to have Mr. Gage assist, or someone else?" he asked politely.

"Oh, I think Johnny owes me one. Do your worst, Junior."

"Okay, Doc," sighed Johnny. "Where do ya want me?"

Roy did his best to pretend that he just plain wasn't there, and let his partner and the doctor do what they had to do.

"Okay, Mr. Gage, take his forearm and hold it as hard as you can, up close to the wrist – yes, right there, okay? And just don't let it move, while I do the rest. Mr. DeSoto, I'm afraid that even with the lidocaine you should expect some discomfort."

"Okay. Ready," said Roy, again borrowing Stoker's speech patterns.

Johnny reached around behind Roy to get the best leverage, and grabbed onto his wrist with both hands. "Sorry, buddy," he murmured, as Henry pulled Roy's fourth and fifth fingers, hard, with one hand and worked on pushing the hand bone back in place with the other. Johnny could feel Roy's whole body tense. As Dr. Henry gave one more strong yank to the fingers and push to the hand bone, there was a crunching sound, and Roy let out an involuntary yell. "All right," Johnny said soothingly, "almost done." He continued to hold onto Roy's wrist, gently, as Dr. Henry carefully felt the fifth metacarpal and found it to be satisfactorily aligned.

"Okay, Mr. DeSoto, that's done. Let's get you in a cast. And I would also recommend that you take, drat, where do they keep them..."

"Whaddaya want – hydrocodone?" asked Johnny. "Dixie's got all that stuff locked up at the nurses' station."

"Of course. Mr. DeSoto, I'll get you some pain pills while your cast is drying, okay?"

Roy let out some shaky breaths, which Johnny echoed with his own. "Doin' okay, pal?" he asked Roy. He also grabbed a basin, just in case, as Roy had That Look.

"Yeah. Thanks." Roy was pale and shaky, and blew several breaths out heavily. Johnny stayed close with the basin, and with his moral support.

Dr. Henry, observing the dynamic between the partners, decided that Roy was better off with Johnny as a friend at the moment than as a nurse. So, he got the casting supplies together himself, without asking for Johnny's assistance. He put some plaster bandages in water to soak, and put a sock-like tube over Roy's arm, very carefully. He began wrapping padding around his forearm, wrist, and between and around the pinky and ring finger.

"The cast is going to go to the ends of these two fingers, which will be buddied together to keep that fifth metacarpal stable. The rest of your fingers, and your thumb, will be free," he explained, as he began wrapping the warm, moist plaster bandages around the padding.

Within five minutes, the cast had been applied and smoothed. Dr. Henry instructed Johnny to help Roy keep the arm elevated while he went to the nurses' station to get some pain pills for Roy.

Johnny held the warm, damp cast aloft. "Pretty amazing how putting the bones back hurts worse than breakin' 'em in the first place, huh," he said.

"You can say that again," said Roy, hoping that Johnny wouldn't.

He didn't. He knew better.

"I'll tell ya, Johnny, I'm feeling like a real idiot right now," sighed Roy. "I've never done anything like this before. It was just so much crap piled together in one morning, and I just lost it. I didn't even think about what I was going to do – it's like it just happened, and I was, I dunno, an outside observer with no control over the situation. I don't know if you have any idea what I mean, but that's how it was."

Johnny knew _exactly_ what Roy meant. "Ya know what? It took me till I was about twenty to not have an impulse like that – one that I actually _acted_ on – pretty much every week. So yeah, Roy, I get it," sighed Johnny.

Roy sighed again, more heavily than before. "Oh, man; Jo's gonna kill me. Especially if I get admin leave without pay. That's the last thing we need."

"C'mon, Roy, Cap won't do that unless someone upstairs makes 'im. B'sides, your record is spotless, and there were pretty damned extenuating circumstances. He'll probably just give you the same talk he gave me a couple years back about how to not end up on Skid Row. It's a good one – take notes."

* * *

Chet took the plunge and called the station.

"_L.A. County Fire Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking._"

"Hey, Cap, it's Chet. I just brought the squad in to Rampart, and I've gotta tell ya somethin'. Roy, um, well, you see, Roy busted his hand, and he's getting a cast right now, and he said to tell you he'll need a sub."

Chet listened to the silence on the line.

"You still there, Cap?"

"_Yes, yes. I assume this happened the way these things usually do?_"

"Yeah, hole in the wall."

"_But Roy – of all people! All right, I'll call in for a sub for the rest of the shift. And you tell him, my office, 0730, before our next shift._"

"Roger wilco, Cap. Uh, Gage said Roy's really, really upset. I mean, he didn't actually _say_, but, you know, they lost that patient, and it sounds like maybe something else happened too, but Gage wasn't sayin'. Tell me to shut up if you wanna, Cap, but I'm beggin' ya – don't be too hard on him."

"_I understand, Kelly, and I appreciate it, but I may not have a choice." _Chet could hear Cap's frustration over the line._ "Tell him – well, tell him to take care, and we'll all be thinking of him, okay?_"

"Sure thing, Cap. Whoops – gotta go – Joanne just came in. I'll be back with Gage in a jiffy. Bye."

* * *

Chet caught up with Joanne at the nurses' station, where Dixie had returned and was speaking to Joanne already.

"I see," Joanne was saying. "And with the kids there? Yeah, that would really set him off. It's just not like him to—oh, hi Chet."

Chet had no idea what they were talking about, but he didn't ask.

"Hi, Joanne. I'm glad you're here – I've gotta drag Gage back to the station for the rest of our shift, and it sounds like Roy is pretty low."

Joanne looked at Dixie. "Can I see him?"

"Well, the orthopedist is still in there setting and casting his hand, but they should—" Dixie was interrupted by a single, loud yell coming from Treatment 2— "be done soon," she finished quietly.

"Oh, honey," Joanne said under her breath as her eyes teared up.

"Chet, why don't you take Joanne to the lounge and get her some coffee," said Dixie. "I'll come in and get you when Dr. Henry is all done. That was the worst part," she said gently. "He'll be much more comfortable now."

"Thanks, Dixie," sniffed Joanne. She allowed Chet to steer her to the lounge.

Chet pointed at the coffee pot. "Are you willing to risk your stomach lining on this swill?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"No thanks, Chet – I can't stand hospital coffee. Too many bad associations."

Chet understood that perfectly. Even though other than Stoker, Roy was the one on their shift with the fewest injuries, Joanne was always there for all the men, and had had more than her fair share of burnt hospital coffee.

"Is Johnny in there with him?" Joanne asked him after a minute.

"Yeah – I guess they're short nurses, so Gage is filling in. Payback for all the times Roy has had to hold Johnny's hand, huh?"

Joanne didn't reply right away. She was looking past Chet, rather than at him. Chet turned to see what she was looking at, and his eye was caught by a splintered, powder-dusted hole in the sheetrock near the bulletin board by the door.

"X marks the spot," he said wryly.

**TBC. **


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 5.**

Joanne DeSoto stared silently at the hole her husband had punched in the wall of the staff lounge.

"It was a bad, bad run, Joanne," Chet said quietly. "Everyone who knew anything could tell the guy wouldn't make it. And right before that, they had a DOA at a welfare check with LAPD."

Joanne turned away from the dusty white hole in the wall to look at Chet. "So what I heard from Dixie was just the icing on the cake. Icing made of shit, on a cake made of crap."

Chet tried not to react, shocked at hearing Roy's wife use such coarse language. Roy never, _ever_ swore, so he just assumed Joanne was the same way. Apparently not.

"Um, can I ask what Dixie said?"

"Oh, Dr. Brackett apparently really screwed the pooch when he told the man's family that he hadn't made it. Woman had her kids with her, and he told them all in front of the whole waiting room—frequent fliers and all."

Chet winced. He knew about some of the people who frequented Rampart's waiting room—people who needed attention, and came in for hangnails and bloody noses on a weekly basis, and people with nothing wrong with them at all who just craved human drama, and fulfilled their cravings by eavesdropping on other people's pain.

"Chet, can I ask you something in confidence?" Joanne said suddenly.

Chet was startled, not for the first time that morning, by Joanne's bluntness. "Um, sure," he said.

She jumped right in. "Do you think Roy seems, I don't know, tightly wound, stressed out, any of those things, at work?"

Kelly had to think about whether or not he was going to touch this one with a ten-foot pole.

Joanne continued. "It's just that I've been, well, concerned, for a couple of months now, that he's been taking things really hard at work, and to be honest, he's been bringing more and more of that home, and he just won't talk to me about it."

Chet was completely uncomfortable with this line of conversation. "Uh, Joanne, I don't really think it's any of my business. I mean, I wanna help him out if there's really something wrong, but … shouldn't you ask Gage? I mean, he knows Roy better'n the rest of us."

Joanne raised an eyebrow at Chet. "Well, I did try that, you know. Problem is, John's so loyal to Roy that he thinks he's doing Roy a favor by not talking to me."

"Okay, so maybe not Gage. Hey, I'll bet Cap would talk to you. He wants to talk to Roy before the next shift anyhow. Maybe you oughta get to Cap first—put a bug in his ear, ya know."

"Roy would kill me. I mean, not literally, but he'd be really upset if I talked to Hank about anything personal," sighed Joanne.

Chet saw that Joanne was really in a tight spot. Nobody that she could talk to would talk to her, and she was worried. "Well, Joanne, I guess there's one thing I can tell you I've noticed lately. Roy's been real quiet around the station. I mean, it's like he and Stoker are having a contest to see who can say the least during a shift. He doesn't seem mad, or upset, or anything—just, well, quiet."

Joanne was silent while she processed this information. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I've been getting at home, too. He doesn't say a thing about work—only talks at all about things that are going on at home. He used to unload all the time—I'd hear about the whole shift as soon as the kids left for school. Now, it's like he's gone for a shift, and then he comes back, and there's this hole that those twenty-four hours disappeared into."

Joanne looked back at the hole in the sheetrock. "Chet, I'm scared he's burning out, and I don't know what to do. His job is everything to him."

Chet immediately took exception to that statement. "Joanne, _you_ and the _kids_ are everything to him. He's crazy about you guys. And I'll bet you that if he ever thought the job was getting in the way of his family, he'd be done just like that."

Joanne shook her head, and let forth another heavy sigh. "And that's exactly what I'm worried about. He seems miserable and on the edge of—well, I guess on the edge of exactly what he did today, and if he quits the job, I think he'd be even more miserable.

"That is," she said glumly, "if he doesn't get fired after what happened today."

"Not gonna happen, Joanne," Chet assured her. "I've seen guys do a lot worse than this, and come out with just a reprimand. And I'm not talkin' about guys who have a spotless record like Roy's. Worst that'll happen? A couple shifts suspension, then desk time till he's out of the cast."

Joanne pondered that. "You know, Chet, that might actually be a good thing. Not the suspension, I mean—the desk work. It might actually be good."

Just then, the lounge door burst open. "Hey, Chet, I guess you found Joanne. Hey, Joanne. Ya wanna go see Roy? He's done with the tough stuff—just waiting for the cast to dry now. I'm glad you're here. He's pretty down on himself right now."

"Not surprising. He thinks he should never make mistakes, and hates it when he does," said Joanne. "But, at least he has no problem admitting he made a mistake. He's just so damned hard on himself!"

"Tell me about it," said Johnny. "He was practically enjoying the pain of the broken hand—like he deserved it or something."

Joanne snorted. "Yep, that's _exactly_ what he'd do."

"Oh, yeah—on that topic..." Johnny handed her a prescription pill bottle. "Make sure he takes these, okay? He wouldn't, earlier, but take it from me—when the lidocaine shots wear off, he's really gonna be feelin' it. Maybe he'll listen to you, but he sure wasn't havin' any of it from me."

"Oh, don't worry; I know how to handle him," Joanne stated confidently.

"Um, how?" Johnny asked curiously.

"Simple—if he doesn't take the pills, I'll tell Jenny that Daddy isn't taking his medicine. She'll straighten him right out in no time."

"Hmm, maybe we could borrow Jenny some time to talk to Dr. Brackett," said Johnny thoughtfully. "No, on second thought, maybe we could borrow _you_ some time to take on Brackett."

Joanne finally laughed. "Johnny, how about if I deal with Roy first, and then take on the rest of the world, okay?"

"Fair enough," said Johnny. "C'mon, I'll take you to him. Then I think I better get back to the station."

"And Joanne," added Chet, "Cap wants Roy in his office at 0730, before the next shift."

* * *

Johnny dropped Joanne off at Treatment 2, and headed back to the squad with Chet. Johnny was _not_ looking forward to explaining the whole thing to Captain Stanley. Not only did he not want to relive the whole thing, but he also didn't want to get Roy in trouble. Or, more trouble than he was already in.

Still, Cap was a reasonable man—after all, he frequently dished out latrine duty to Chet—so Johnny was not too worried about how he would deal with Roy. As Johnny drove the squad back to the station, it was a rare experience for him to have someone in the passenger seat. Roy always—_always_—drove the squad when they were on a run.

"So, Gage, I got an earful from Joanne about Roy being really down at home lately. What's goin' on, do you think?" asked Chet.

Johnny shook his head. "I dunno, Kelly. I _really_ don't know. Between you and me? I think he needs a break. A real break—not a vacation with the family, where he comes back needing a vacation from his vacation; not a day or two working his way down the "honey do" list and then right back to business. I'm talking a total change of scenery—no fires, no rescues, no firehouse shenanigans, but something useful to do so he doesn't sit around and brood day in and day out. I think getting put on administrative leave would be about the worst thing that could happen to him right now."

Kelly digested that. It jibed well with what he had heard from Joanne. "Ya know? I think you should tell Cap exactly what you just told me," Chet said. "Cap gave me a lecture once, maybe a year ago—"

"Lemme guess—how to stay off Skid Row and in the department? How to not punch a wall and end up on admin leave? Make sure you talk to someone when you're having a problem? Fess up before you burn out?" Johnny clearly remembered the lecture vividly.

"Yep."

"That's a good one."

"Yep. And my point is, I'll bet Roy's never gotten that lecture, 'cause he's so freakin' calm and mature all the time. But honestly? Aside from Stoker, he's gotta be about the most bottled-up guy I ever met."

Johnny concentrated on backing the squad into the bay, and shut off the engine. "Well, time to go face the music. Wonder if I have a sub, yet. Shit, I hope it's not Brice. Though I guess I deserve it, for all the times I've saddled Roy with him."

* * *

Roy was sitting alone in Treatment 2. Dr. Henry had been called to see a patient of his upstairs—actually, an MVA victim that Roy and Johnny had brought in on their last shift. Before he headed upstairs, Dr. Henry had tried to convince Roy to accept a shot of Demerol, to no avail. But Roy had to admit that the pain of the injury was not helping him deal with the wreckage of his day.

The door squeaked open tentatively—obviously not hospital personnel.

"Jo?" Roy said.

Joanne entered the room, to see Roy stretched out on the gurney, with his right hand elevated over his head.

"Oh, Roy," said Joanne, as she bent down to brush the hair off his forehead and kiss him gently. "I'm so sorry, honey."

Roy looked away. "That should be my line, shouldn't it?" He sighed. "I am, you know. I don't know what got into me."

"Don't you?" said Joanne. "Not at all? I mean, Chet and Johnny had some pretty good theories, and Dixie filled in some blanks too. So it seems like you could probably find something to say if you wanted to."

Roy looked at his boots, but didn't say anything, not for several minutes. Joanne waited, not pressing him. She'd endured weeks of near silence from Roy, so she knew a few minutes wasn't going to hurt her any more than the weeks had.

"I'm burned out, Jo. I can't do the job anymore. I'm hurting you and the kids, I'm hurting Johnny, and I today, finally, I had to hurt myself so I would finally get the message. And I'm scared, and I don't know what to do."

And once the floodgates were opened, the pressure behind them—_years_ of pressure—came out all at once, and Roy sobbed as his wife held him close.

* * *

Johnny knocked on Cap's open door, just to let him know he was there.

"Come on in, John. Why don't you close the door," suggested Captain Stanley.

Johnny closed the door, and took a seat without being asked. He preferred to pace, but knew that his hyperactive behavior drove Captain Stanley to distraction, and he wanted Cap's full attention.

Johnny cut right to the chase. "Cap, I think you should reassign Roy."

He'd wanted Cap's full attention, and he had it. Captain Stanley put down his pen, took off his reading glasses, and closed his logbook.

"All right, John, I'm listening. Why don't you start at the beginning."

"Well, Cap, I'm not really sure where the beginning is, exactly. I mean, I'm sure you've been noticing how quiet he's been lately, right?"

Cap nodded.

"I mean, it's not just when we're sitting around waiting for something to happen, either. There've been times when he's quiet around the station, but then we get in the squad and he opens up. My trick is, I shut up for a little while, and then he talks. Well, not lately. Bad runs, great runs, weird runs – nothin'.

"There've even been times when he and Joanne have been pissed at each other, and he's talked to me about it. I mean, _me_, Cap! The commitment-free dateless wonder of L.A., no strings attached—and he'll talk to _me_ about trouble at home when it's just the two of us." Johnny was fidgeting in his seat like an eight-year-old in the principal's office.

"He trusts you, John. You've earned his trust a thousand times over. Ten thousand."

Johnny pounded his fist on Cap's desk. "Yeah, so why not with whatever's goin' on with him now? I mean, we had a real bad morning—real bad, Cap. But puttin' his fist through the wall?" He shook his head.

"Tell me some more about what happened today. I know you had the run with LAPD this morning, and that was tough. And then right after that, we all worked the MVA, and that was tougher. Any idea what got to Roy so badly about today, though?"

"Well, there's more to it than that—for one thing, neither of us likes a hot response with an essentially dead patient. There's a huge difference between a heart attack patient, where getting them to Rampart faster will really make a difference, and where their heart is still getting messages from the brain, and the guy we had today, who was asystolic and brain-injured as hell, and wasn't gonna come back from that.

"And if the ambulance crashes, on a hopeless but hot response? Someone could get killed. And it could be a pedestrian, another driver, or a Mayfair guy—or it could be a paramedic. So we were both thinkin' about the contrast between the lady LAPD was checking on this morning, who was three days gone, and the guy we took in next. So that's the first thing."

"So there's more, then?" asked Cap.

"Yeah—the patient's wife and kids showed up at Rampart just after we did. Brackett gave her the news right in the ER waiting room. Kids there and everything. I think that really sent Roy over the edge."

Cap winced. Every married firefighter had thought of many scenarios of how his wife might hear about his death or serious injury on the job. Having the kids there would definitely be near the bottom of a list that was bad enough anyhow.

Captain Stanley looked John in the eye. "So that's what _happened_ today. What do you think is going on, with Roy, though, John?"

Johnny rubbed his brow. "To be honest? I think he's had the weight of the world on his shoulders since I've known him, and he's burned out, and he can't admit it. And it's killing him."

Cap frowned. "So, you're suggesting I put him on leave?"

"NO!" Johnny couldn't help it anymore, and jumped out of his chair, and started pacing. "No, I think that would be the _worst_ possible thing for him."

"So what _are_ you suggesting?" asked Cap.

Johnny paced the small room a few times, thinking.

"And would you _please_ sit down?"

Johnny sat, with his feet on the seat of the chair and his butt on the top of the chair's back.

"Like an _adult_?"

Johnny looked up, as if he hadn't realized how he was sitting. "Sorry." He sat down properly, but his foot jiggled up and down wildly.

"Cap, I think he needs a different job in the department for a while. No fires, no rescues, but not just paperwork. He needs to make a difference, but without having life-and-death pressure, day in, day out.

"It's not that I don't think he's tough enough to take it, or anything—it's just—aw, I dunno, Cap, I'm no good at this stuff," complained Gage.

Cap smiled at him. "You're doing just fine, John. In fact, before you got here, I was on the phone with headquarters to ask some questions."

Johnny looked at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"Like, for instance, do I have to suspend him for intentional self-injury on duty. And the answer is, it's my discretion."

John looked up. "You're not—please say you're not gonna suspend him."

"No, absolutely not. You confirmed my suspicions, John, that he's been brooding, and suspension isn't gonna help that in the slightest," said Cap.

"Whew. Thanks, Cap," Johnny sighed in relief. "But you said _questions_, plural. What else did you find out?" asked Johnny.

"Well, suspension is my discretion, but counseling and a return-to-duty sign-off from the counselor are mandatory."

"Oh, boy," said Johnny under his breath, "he's gonna hate that."

"Well, John, nobody would admit to _liking_ it, but it's done lots of men plenty of good, let me tell you. And one more thing I found out."

"What's that, Cap?"

"Brice wants some extra shifts."

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys. Universal and Mark VII productions do. The situations are not meant to represent any real event, and the actions of the characters are not meant to represent the actions of any real person.

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 6.**

Roy DeSoto was dreading the day ahead of him. He'd been sent home from Rampart two mornings ago with a light-duty note, stating that he was able to perform desk duty but no firefighter or paramedic duties. Today was the morning he was to meet with Captain Stanley, before the A-shift crew started their twenty-four hour shift. And, after his meeting with Captain Stanley, he was to report to headquarters to begin his temporary assignment.

Captain Stanley had already spoken to Roy on the phone the previous day, to let him know that he did not need to be concerned about being suspended, but that he did still want to see Roy before the A-shift began.

Roy was wondering what kind of desk work HQ was going to cook up for a guy with a busted writing hand. He supposed he'd find out when he got there after getting chewed out by Captain Stanley. He looked at his watch: 0710, time to get in the car if he wanted to get to the station on time. He went up to the kids' rooms, and kissed them without waking them, as it was a day off from school and they were both of the age where they finally slept in a bit.

"Jo?" He found her in the kitchen. "I gotta go face the music," he sighed.

Joanne pulled him to her for a hug and a kiss. "He's not going to tie you to the mast and beat you with the cat o' nine tails, you know. Or keelhaul you, or make you walk the plank. After all, that's Captain Hookraider's job, right? Hank's a perfectly reasonable man, and so are you, and so you can have a perfectly reasonable adult conversation, right?"

Roy kissed the top of her head. "Right," he said. "You're right, as always. What would I do without you, Jo?"

"Probably punch walls more often," she laughed. She swatted him on the rear, and said, "Now scram, buster, or you'll be late!"

* * *

As Roy arrived at the station, B-shift's men were just putting away gear after an early-morning run.

"Hey, DeSoto," said Dwyer, the senior B-shift paramedic. "Heard you hit the wall."

"Straight to the point as always, Dwyer," Roy acknowledged, holding up his cast for Dwyer to see. "True. I totally lost it. Cap'n Stanley called me in early to 'have a chat' before I head to HQ to see what they've cooked up for my desk duty."

"Heard Gage is partnering with Brice for a couple shifts. That'll be one for the record books, I'll bet. Wonder which will murder the other first?" joked Dwyer.

"It'll be double murder. Gage'll go for something quick but messy, but not before Brice will have neatly poisoned him with something undetectable by modern science." Roy looked over at the office door. "Is Captain Hookraider still in there?"

"Nope," said Dwyer, "he's in the shower. Today's your lucky day—just your nice, calm, reasonable Captain is in there. So quit stallin'!"

Roy sighed, and knocked on the open door.

"Roy? Come on in," said Captain Stanley. And for the second time in as many shifts, he added, "and go ahead and close the door."

Roy sat down in the chair in front of Captain Stanley's desk. He pushed the light-duty note from Dr. Henry across the desk, and Cap read it and put it in the file in front of him. The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds.

"How's the hand?" asked the captain.

Roy held up his cast to show Cap. "It's not too bad. The rest of me is feeling pretty stupid, though," he admitted.

Another few seconds of silence, Captain Stanley sighed. "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed about this, Roy."

Roy looked at his boots. "Sorry," he said, in a small voice. "I really blew it. I completely lost control of myself. I'm really sorry," he repeated.

"Wanna tell me about it?" asked the captain.

Roy sat silently for about thirty seconds. "Cap, I'm burned out."

Cap nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?" Roy asked. "How can it be okay? I'm telling you I'm burned out, right after I completely snapped, without warning, and you think it's okay?"

"Whoa, slow down, Roy. I'm not saying it's okay that you put your fist through the wall. I'm not saying it's okay you're burned out. I'm just acknowledging what you said. And the next thing I'll say is this: let's start dealing with it," Stanley said firmly.

"Okay," said Roy.

"All right," said Cap.

"Now we've gotten past that part. What's next?" asked Roy.

Cap held up the thick manila folder he had on his desk. "This is your file, Roy. Not a single black mark in it. Let's just look at what's in here, for a moment. I know you know what's here, but I want you to listen anyhow."

Cap opened the chart. "Graduated high school 1962. One year in an auto body shop; two years in the Army. April, 1965, entered L.A. Firefighter Trainee program; completed January 1966; completed probationary period December 1966. 1966-1968: firefighter at Station 127. 1968-1970: firefighter at Station 36. 1971: entered first Paramedic training class. 1972-present: Firefighter/paramedic at Station 51. Honors: in top five of class of 150 in firefighter trainee program. Graduated first in class in Paramedic training. Eleven letters of commendation, as firefighter and/or paramedic. Zero written warnings or reprimands."

"Should I keep going? Roy, you've been going non-stop for thirteen years. And for the last six, you've been a firefighter/paramedic. Nobody else from the first graduating class of paramedics is still doing this job—did you know that?"

Roy shook his head—he hadn't kept up with all the others from that first group. He knew one had moved to Sacramento and become a captain there, and another had taken a captaincy in L.A., but that was all.

"You took the engineer's exam, and had one of the highest scores in the county, but you didn't apply for a position as an engineer, and same for the lieutenant's exam," continued Cap.

"I just didn't want to have to stop being a paramedic," said Roy. "I love it. But I can't do it any more. Not right now. But honestly, Cap, I can't imagine what I could possibly do instead."

"Well, you don't need to worry about that for a few more weeks. HQ will cook something up for you, I'm sure." Captain Stanley looked Roy in the eye. "Speaking of HQ... Well, I don't know exactly how to put this, but, they're mandating a psych sign-off before they'll return you to full duty."

Roy sighed. "Yeah, I figured. That's what I'd do if I were them," he said. "No problem, Cap; I'll do it. I won't love it, but I'll do it."

"Good man." Cap paused. "I've done it, you know."

Roy looked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. During the Watts Riots, my company lost three guys in a structure fire. Building just totally collapsed. I was outside changing my air tank, or it would've been four. I completely froze next time I had to mask up."

Silence.

"My charming, old-fashioned captain told me to either man up or ship out. I went into HQ to resign the next day, and the assistant chief himself talked me out of it. I didn't like spilling my guts to the shrink, but it got me back in the action. And I swore if I ever made Captain, I'd be there for my men, unlike my old captain. Not McConnike, by the way—before his time. So Roy, I feel like I've let you down. I really do."

Roy shook his head. "Cap, no. No way."

"Well, Roy, everyone could see something was eating at you the last couple weeks. Maybe even months. Not sure when I noticed. I didn't even try to talk to you about it, and I'm sorry for that."

Roy snorted. "Chances are I wouldn't have talked, anyhow. Lord knows Joanne tried, and I just pushed her away. Johnny even tried, in his own clumsy way, but he was easy enough to put off. I guess I should've known I was in trouble when _Stoker_ asked me if there was anything I wanted to talk about."

Roy reflected for a moment, and continued. "I guess I _did_ know I was in trouble. I just didn't know what to do about it."

"I guess you never gave me occasion to deliver my 'Avoiding Skid Row' lecture, did you," Cap said wryly.

"Heard about it from Johnny, after they set my hand. He said it was a good one, and I should take notes."

"Glad to hear he was paying attention," said Cap. "I think all the other guys have had it by now. Even Mike."

"Lemme guess," said Roy. "That time he went three shifts in a row without saying a word unless someone addressed him directly?"

"Bingo," said Cap. "He wouldn't tell me what was going on, but he swore up and down he'd talk to a friend. He must've done something like that, 'cause he did better after a few more shifts."

"I talked to Joanne, finally," admitted Roy. "Not till after this, though," he said, holding up his cast.

"You two okay?" asked Cap.

"Yeah, we are now. I was really pushing her away, though. Never done that before. Don't think I'll try it again."

"Good," said Cap.

Cap pushed a paper across his desk to Roy. "You're to report to HQ directly, first to Assistant Chief Armstrong at 0830, and then to Dr. Pritchard at 0900. Chief Armstrong will give you your desk assignment, and, unfortunately, he'll probably wipe the floor with you a bit too. He's a hard-ass. Not the one that talked me out of resigning all those years ago. Pritchard's the Department's shrink. I heard from another guy who got sent to him that he's a good guy. Then, when Pritchard is done with you for the day, you'll start your mystery assignment. Which, by the way, I know nothing about, or I'd tell you."

Through the closed door, Hank and Roy could hear the other members of A-shift arriving. Stoker, A-shift's early bird, had likely arrived silently before the rest of the men, and started the coffee. Brice would have been undetectable in his arrival. Marco and Chet arrived noisily, as usual. Johnny wasn't there yet, but would likely show up just in time not to get assigned latrine duty.

"All right, Roy. Stay in touch with the shift while you're doing whatever you're gonna do. In fact, why don't you come by after they let you out this afternoon and fill us in—if you're comfortable with that."

Roy looked hesitant. "I dunno, Cap. Let's wait and see how the day goes. How 'bout if I call from HQ later on and let you know?"

"Sounds good," said Cap. He extended his left hand to Roy, knowing Roy couldn't shake with the right. They shook hands. "Good luck—and remember, just because you're on light duty doesn't mean you can't talk to me."

"Thanks, Cap. I mean it," said Roy. He stood up from the chair, and went out to the day room to face whoever was there. He had a few minutes to kill, since it would only take him ten minutes to get to HQ. He wasn't looking forward to the awkward first meetings after The Incident, but best to get it over with.

Naturally, the first person Roy saw was Craig Brice. Brice was calmly—how else?—sipping his first and likely only coffee of the day, and reading the latest issue of the _Journal of Emergency Medical Services_.

"Hey, Brice," said Roy.

Brice looked up. "DeSoto. I was very surprised and dismayed to hear that you did something as unwise as punching a wall. I would have thought you were more in control of yourself than most other men, but I suppose I can be wrong on occasion."

Roy rolled his eyes. "Can it, Brice. Not in the mood. You should be reading _Journal of Basic Social Skills_ instead of _JEMS_."

Marco and Chet rolled into the day room. "Hey, Roy!" said Chet. "So, what're they gonna do to ya?"

"Geez, Chet, you make it sound like he's getting sentenced, or something. It's just desk work," said Marco. "How's the hand, Roy?"

"Not too bad," said Roy. "I can sort of write, since it's just the pinky and ring fingers in the cast. The kids want to draw on it, but I don't think that'd go over too well at HQ. I thought I should see how much trouble I'm in first."

"Hey, Roy." Stoker had entered the room with his usual stealth. "You okay?"

"Not yet, but I will be, Mike. Thanks for asking."

Stoker nodded, and poured himself some coffee.

"Hey, partner! Not you, Brice," said Johnny, "You're temporary." Johnny strolled into the kitchen just in time to get the last cup of joe. "What's the plan?"

"Dunno yet. I have to go to HQ, and they'll set me up with something." He carefully neglected to mention the mandatory counseling and psych sign-off.

"Well, let me know, will ya? Wanna get you back as soon as possible, ya know."

Brice studiously ignored this comment. Roy laughed.

"Okay, Johnny. Will do. Brice, keep him out of trouble, if that's possible." Roy checked the clock over the TV in the day room. "I better hit the road—no good to be late to your own funeral."

Chet hummed a funereal march, as Roy left the day room and headed to the parking lot.

The drive to HQ took exactly the ten minutes that Roy had allotted for it. He parked the car in the visitors' lot, and walked up to the front door. He greeted the secretary at the front desk politely.

"Good morning, Roy DeSoto here to see Assistant Chief Armstrong."

"Hello, Mr. DeSoto. He'll be just a moment. Have a seat—" she indicated a waiting area. "He'll be in a better mood after he has his coffee," she said conspiratorially.

_Great_, thought Roy. _Just great. This is gonna be some day._

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry this chapter is short. I've placed a priority on frequency of update over word count. Probably helps both writer and reader maintain interest.

**Hitting the Wall**

** Chapter 7.**

Roy waited for about ten minutes in the uncomfortable waiting area he'd been sent to. It seemed as though the chairs were designed to make you squirm; to make you feel uncomfortable and small even before having to go talk with The Powers That Be. Many people passed by on their ways to their duties at headquarters; some of them ignored Roy, but some shot him a thumbs-up sign, or, regrettably, a wince and a pitying glance.

A heavy, red-faced man in his fifties opened the office door labeled "Assistant Chief Armstrong."

"DeSoto!" the man barked into the waiting room.

Roy found this odd, as he was the only person there. He stood up, and replied, "Yessir, that's me."

"In my office! Now!"

So Roy went on in, and shut the door quietly.

He was not asked to take a seat, so he stood there in front of Armstrong's desk.

"Well, Mister, it looks like you really blew it. If you think you're going to get a paid vacation out of the department by doing a dumb-ass thing like punching a wall, you have another think coming to you. You paramedics have it easier than real firemen anyhow, so let me tell you, nobody is happy about this incident."

"No, sir," agreed Roy.

"Did I ask you to open your mouth, numb-nuts?"

Roy wasn't really sure whether or not to answer, but it _was_ a question. "No, sir."

"You're correct—I did not. Here's what's going to happen. Much though I'd like to suspend you without pay until you can return to duty, your captain has decided not to recommend that course of action. Personally, I think that anyone who does something so dumb on company time oughta just get canned, but that also isn't up to me. I'd also love to sit you behind a desk with nothing to do so you can't make any trouble, but I can't do that, either, because the Chief has something special cooked up for you."

Roy stood, silently, and waited.

"It seems the Chief got a request from the medical director of the EMS program, I forget his name, but it reminds me of a shelf. Dr. Shelf? No, Brackett. That's it. The doc wants an experienced paramedic detached to him for a month or so to work on some policy crap and developing some additional trainings, so you're it. I don't know if he's a friend of yours or something, but let me tell you, if I had any choice about it, you'd be sitting in the basement for the next six weeks, rotting away, instead of in a cushy hospital with the fancy docs."

He shoved an envelope across his desk at Roy. "Here's the details of your assignment. I don't ever want to see your ass in here again, got it? Now get out of my office before I puke. Go upstairs to the headshrinker and see if he can straighten your sorry self out."

Roy took the envelope. He noted Armstrong's apoplectic complexion, but decided this would not be a good time to talk about the health effects of obesity and hypertension. So he settled for saying, "Yessir, thank you sir, won't happen again, sir," and made a hasty exit.

_Well, that could've been a lot worse, _thought Roy._ He'll be glad to see me in his office when he has a heart attack, though. _From seeing the man, and listening to him for five minutes, Roy was pretty sure that it was a matter of "when" and not "if." In fact, Roy was sure it was a close contest between heart attack and stroke.

Roy checked his watch. 0845—still fifteen minutes until his appointment with Dr. Pritchard. He sat back down in the waiting area, then reconsidered whether he wanted to be seen by Armstrong again. He went back to the receptionist's desk.

"Pardon me, miss, but could you point me to Dr. Pritchard's office? And do you know if there's a waiting area near there?"

The desk secretary smiled, and said, "Glad to see you made it past old Strong-Arm without damage. Or," she added, looking at his cast, "more damage. Don't worry—Dr. Pritchard's a pussycat. And, he's on the third floor—there's a lounge at the end of the floor, where Strong-Arm will never see you. And you can just knock on Dr. Pritchard's door at your appointment time—he's expecting you."

"Thanks, miss," Roy said gratefully. He took the stairs up to the third floor lounge, and sat down to read the details of his new assignment.

The first item in the packet was a copy of a letter addressed to the Chief of the L.A. County Fire Department. The letter was from none other than Dr. Kelly Brackett, and was dated the same day as Roy's "accident" at the hospital.

Dear Chief Houts:

It has come to my attention recently that there are some policy changes that need to be considered in the paramedic program. Specifically, experienced paramedics are finding that there are patients being transported with lights and sirens who are not salvageable even by modern medicine in hospital conditions. Any Code 3 ambulance transport poses a certain risk to members of the community, as well as to the ambulance and fire department personnel involved in the transport.

Rampart and St. Luke's Emergency Department physicians agree with the paramedics' assessment of this risk/benefit conflict. We believe it would be in the public's interest for physicians supervising paramedics to be permitted to authorize the paramedics to end life-sustaining treatment, and thus transport the patient non-Code-R, under certain extremely limited and well-defined circumstances.

In order to best implement a proposal for the legislative change that would be required to change L.A. County Emergency Medical Services' policies regarding patient transport, I request the assignment of an experienced paramedic, for a minimum period of six weeks, to assist in gathering the necessary data and drafting a proposal to be presented to the legislators of the State of California.

As this issue concerns public health and safety, in my capacity as Medical Director of L.A. County EMS, I request that you assign a paramedic to my office as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Dr. Kelly Brackett, MD, FACS

Medical Director, L.A. County EMS

Director, Rampart General Hospital Emergency Department

_Interesting, _thought Roy. _He was listening. He was really listening. And he knew perfectly well who he'd get from the department. _

The next item in the packet was Chief Houts' response to Dr. Brackett, assuring him that the matter would have his immediate attention. The final item in the packet was Roy's actual letter of reassignment: for the next six weeks, Roy was assigned to Rampart General Hospital as department liaison to the Medical Director of L.A. County Emergency Medical Services, forty hours per week, hours to be determined by Dr. Brackett, same monthly pay as current position.

_This might be just the thing, _thought Roy._ Brackett must've known he'd get me, so that's almost an apology from him. I sure owe him one, too._

Roy checked his watch again, not wanting to be late for his appointment. It was 0858. Roy put his papers back into the envelope, stood up, and walked down the hallway, looking at the nameplates on the doors.

314, Dr. William Pritchard. Roy automatically raised his right hand to knock on the door, which swung open just as Roy realized he was about to use his broken hand to knock.

"Well, you must be Roy DeSoto," said the bearded man who had opened the door. "I hope you weren't about to knock with that hand, or we have more work to do than I thought we might."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 8.**

"Well, as you may have guessed, I'm Bill Pritchard." Dr. Pritchard, just as Cap had done, offered Roy a lefty handshake. "Please, come in, Mr. DeSoto. Have a seat." Pritchard motioned Roy to a comfortable armchair, while Pritchard himself took a seat on the couch across from the chair.

"Thanks," said Roy.

Pritchard inspected Roy for a few seconds, then said, "Well, Mr. DeSoto, let's just jump right into it."

Roy was relieved that Pritchard knew what to do, because he sure didn't. "Okay. But please call me Roy—Mr. DeSoto makes me feel old, and I don't really need that right now."

"Fair enough," said Dr. Pritchard, "as long as you're willing to call me Bill."

"Okay, I'll try," said Roy. "You're the boss."

Pritchard frowned mildly. "Well, no, Roy; actually, _you're_ the boss. Our work together here is about helping _you_ figure out what's going on, so you can take the steps you find are necessary to get back on track. I'm just the guide, to help you get onto and stay on your path. Sure, I'm the one that has to sign the return-to-duty form, but you're the one who's gonna be doing the work to get there."

Roy was surprised at this—he thought this was going to be yet another departmental power game. But possibly, just possibly, this business might turn out to be useful.

"All right," said Roy. "I guess that makes sense. It's just not what I'm used to from doctors. All the ones I know, they kinda like to be in charge and to be right all the time—no offense."

"None taken. All physicians are in their field to help people, but I think the kind of people that are drawn to emergency and trauma medicine tend to have, well, different personalities from those drawn to psychiatry."

Roy nodded. "I can buy that—just like after spending a few years as regular firefighters, some guys want to be engineers, some guys go for rescue training, some guys go for EMS, and some guys go in for things like arson investigation or fire police."

"Exactly. It takes all kinds," Pritchard said reasonably.

They were silent for a moment, then Pritchard continued. "So, Roy, tell me a bit about why you're here. Not what it says on your paperwork—I have that already—but what you think is going on."

Roy had anticipated this question. "Well, first of all, I guess the obvious thing." He raised his cast. "Punching a hole in the wall got me a ticket to see you, but you know that already. I guess the real issue is what's behind why I cracked. I mean, my partner and I see and do things every shift that would give you nightmares, Doc. So why did I crack two days ago, and not two years ago, or two weeks from now?"

Pritchard nodded. "That's a good start, Roy. What do you think some reasons might be?"

Roy was ready for this one, too. "In a nutshell? I think I'm just burned out. I keep on going, because what choice do I have, really. But I'm tired. Tired of the misery, tired of the shifts where we have eighteen runs in a row, tired of the shifts where we just sit around and wait for the misery to call us out, tired of the stupid things people do to themselves and others. Just … tired."

"Are you thinking of leaving the paramedic field?"

"I have no idea _what _I'm thinking these days. And that's the heart of the matter, Doc. I can't keep doing what I'm doing, but there's nothing else I want to do either."

Pritchard waited for him to continue. When Roy didn't say anything more, Pritchard gave him a cue. "What do you think you want, Roy?"

Roy sighed. "I guess what I really want? It's, well, I want to _want_ to do my job again. Not just do it, not just get through it, but … aw, I dunno …"

"It sounds like maybe you've lost the drive, but not the interest, if that makes sense," said Pritchard.

Roy considered that evaluation. "Yeah, I suppose so. Intellectually, I know exactly what I want to do in life. But, in reality, it's like all the feeling is gone. Everything's just … flat. Which is bizarre—I oughta feel _something_ if we have a great save, or a bad run—and I don't."

"Are there emotions that you _do_ continue to feel?"

"I get mad. Frustrated. I'm impatient with the kids, snap at my wife, and pretty much ignore the guys at the station. I even pretty much ignore my partner, and let me tell you, he makes himself pretty darned hard to ignore."

"What were you feeling when you punched the wall?" asked Pritchard.

Roy laughed hollowly. "Oh, that's an easy one. You know the expression 'seeing red?' Well, I never really thought it was real, but take it from me, it is. All I could feel was mad, mad, mad, and all I could see was red."

"And what did you feel after you hit that wall?"

"Now that's the funny thing," said Roy. "It hurt like heck, but I was glad to just feel _something_ other than rage. I almost did it again just to feel it again, but Johnny stopped me. I think."

Pritchard nodded. "Johnny—this is John Gage, your hard-to-ignore partner?"

"Yeah," said Roy. "That's my partner."

"But go on, Roy. Tell me some more about after you hit the wall."

"Well, Johnny pretty much said I was acting like a nut case, which is a fine thing coming from him, let me tell you."

"Why do you suppose he was thinking that? Other than the fact that you had acted uncharacteristically, that is."

Roy snorted. "Well, for one thing, I wouldn't let them give me any pain meds. It was almost like, I don't know, I was finally feeling _something_, after weeks and weeks of _nothing_, and I didn't want anyone to take that away from me."

"Okay," said Pritchard. "What else?"

"Oh yeah, and I said something _really_ crazy to him, sort of like I was looking forward to getting the bone set," Roy admitted sheepishly.

"Why do you think you said that?"

Roy had to think about whether he wanted to admit what he'd really felt and said. He wrestled with himself for a few moments, while Pritchard waited silently. "What I _actually_ said, Doc, was something totally insane—like it wasn't hurting as much as I really deserved, and maybe when they set it, it would hurt enough to make me feel better." Roy practically whispered this last part.

Pritchard didn't say anything for a minute or two; not until Roy looked up again. "What I think I'm hearing, and correct me if I'm wrong, is that you're down on everything, yourself included."

Roy nodded, not looking at Pritchard.

"And you're seeking out any feeling, even if it's pain, just so you can feel something other than anger."

Another nod.

"The other thing I'm hearing is that you seem to have thought a lot already about what's going on. And, you're willing to put it out there between us on the table. And that's really, really good. That's probably the most important thing you can do right now, Roy."

"Okay," Roy said quietly.

Pritchard gave Roy a minute to collect himself.

"Now, I'd also like you to tell me about what happened on your shift before you hit the wall. Anything at all that you feel like saying, even if you don't feel like it has anything to do with what happened later."

So Roy explained about the LAPD welfare check assist, and the three-days-gone body they found. He told Pritchard about being called immediately from that run to the MVA with the severely brain-injured patient. He told Pritchard his feelings about the public dangers of a high-speed transport of someone in that condition. He described the way Brackett had publicly and bluntly informed the man's family of his death. And finally, he described all the ways he'd ever envisioned Joanne getting that kind of news someday, and his feelings of guilt for being in a profession that was far more likely to leave her a widow than other professions were.

He talked for almost fifteen minutes straight. Pritchard didn't interrupt him at all—just let him talk.

Finally, Roy was out of things to say. Just plain out. And the problem was, he'd told Pritchard absolutely everything—drained his soul dry—and he didn't feel one bit better. Not one iota. He just felt exposed, and scared.

"And Doc, I gotta tell you, I don't know what's gonna fix any of this."

Pritchard looked Roy in the eye. "One thing you need for sure, is time. Think of it this way: the damage, if you can call it that, to your emotional balance, has happened over a long period of time, with many factors contributing to it. So repairing the damage—it won't be instant.

"But one thing I can tell you for sure: your ability to size up what's going on inside your head—your self awareness—you just showed me that is a huge strength for you to build on. I can't tell you how many men come in here and give me monosyllables, or tell me nonsense about how everything's just fine. For a lot of men, it takes weeks to get where you got just now: recognizing that something has gone wrong, and having some ideas about what has happened."

Roy listened carefully. "But how do I get out of this rut, Doc?" he asked, when he thought Pritchard was done talking.

"Well, that's not an easy question, Roy. What you and I will do over the next few weeks is answer that question. We'll build you a tool kit, if you'll pardon the metaphor, for dealing with the problems that are holding you back right now. We'll get to the root of where the anger is coming from, and why that's the only thing you seem to be able to feel now. And you'll get to a point where you can make a good decision about where you want to go with your career—a decision based on how you feel in a few weeks, not how you feel today."

"Hmpf. Yeah, pretty much any decision I might make about anything today would be bad," said Roy. "I should even let Joanne pick my clothes in the morning these days, or I'll end up wearing nothing but black."

Pritchard laughed. "Glad to see you still have your sense of humor—even if it is a bit dark at the moment." Pritchard glanced at the clock. "Roy, I have another guy coming in soon, so we need to wrap up."

"Okay," agreed Roy. "What next?"

"Well, I'd like you to come in again tomorrow, but I understand you've been assigned to Rampart to do some work there with Dr. Brackett. How does that sit with you, by the way?" asked Pritchard, aware that Roy had directed a fair amount of his recent anger at Brackett.

"Actually," said Roy, "his request for an experienced paramedic to do this assignment—especially since he knew I'd be on desk work—was about as close to an apology from him as anyone has ever heard. So actually, Doc, it sits just fine." Roy rubbed his brow. "Though I sure owe him a really huge apology too. I stepped way out of line with him the other day, even if I _was_ right. Which I was."

"That sounds like a good idea—you'll probably feel better, and maybe he'll learn a thing or two about apologies himself."

Roy raised his eyebrows.

"Or maybe not," amended Pritchard. "But you might just be surprised. In any case, I'd like you to come in every day for the next while. I'll call Dr. Brackett to let him know that the department requires this, and leave it to the two of you to work out timing."

"I can tell you one thing, Doc—Brackett's no early bird, so first thing is probably easiest," said Roy.

Pritchard went to his desk and checked his calendar. "Why don't I pencil you in for eight o'clock for the rest of the week, if that's not too early."

Roy chuckled. "Doc, I'm a fireman. 0800 is fine. I'll make sure that's okay with Dr. Brackett, but I think it'll be safe to assume that will work for him."

"Good," said Pritchard. "One more thing—I don't know Kel Brackett too well personally, but I suspect that his reputation as a supervisor of interns and such suggests that he may try to keep you till all hours. And that is not what I want to see happening at this point." He started scribbling on a pad of paper. "So, I'm writing this on my prescription pad, here: forty hours a week, period. The timing of the hours may be determined by him, but the forty hours? That's an order from the department. You're being paid by us, not him, and overloading you is not in anyone's interests at this point." He handed Roy the "prescription."

"So, tomorrow at 0800, right Doc?"

"Yep—see you then."

Roy stood at the door for a second before letting himself out. "Doc? Thanks. I mean it."

Pritchard smiled back. "My pleasure, Roy. See you tomorrow."

Roy let himself out into the hallway, and let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding it for three days. His hand was pounding to the beat of his heart, but the rhythm was noticeably slower and calmer than it had been before he walked into the HQ building that morning.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hitting the Wall**

**Chapter 9.**

Roy sat behind the wheel of his sports car in the parking lot for a good ten minutes, contemplating the discussion he'd just had with Dr. Pritchard. It was a bizarre feeling to bare his soul to another human being. Sure, he and Joanne had heart-to-hearts, but it was about family matters, relationship matters, that sort of thing. But he'd realized long ago that while Joanne was a caring, understanding wife, because she didn't experience the day-in, day-out tough stuff that was the rule rather than the exception in his job, she didn't understand some of the things that weighed on him most heavily. She could comfort him with her presence and her love, but she couldn't relate. And that was just how it was going to be.

So to have a listener who not only wanted to hear about his job stresses, but whose job it was to help him deal with these stresses, was a totally novel experience. Sure, he knew he could always go to Cap with anything, but, well, it was seeming good to have a "professional listener" on board at the moment.

But now—time to go see Brackett. Roy started the engine, and backed the car out of the parking space. It felt strange to be driving to Rampart in something other than the squad or an ambulance. Made him nervous, actually. He thought, while driving, about why that might be.

When he got to the hospital, he almost laughed out loud—almost, but not quite—when he realized he'd driven to the Emergency entrance on autopilot. He drove the car back out the main entrance, to the visitors' lot. And, as he got a ticket from the attendant at the booth, he realized why he was unsettled by driving his personal vehicle to Rampart.

Every other time he'd driven to the hospital in his own car, it was because one of his friends was there as a patient. Usually Johnny, frankly, but sometimes others. So it was no wonder the pit in his stomach formed as he drove his car—it was a strongly negative association.

It was nearly 10:00 by the time Roy made it into the building. He wondered if Brackett would be there yet—he realized he wasn't even sure what the man's hours actually were, just that he always seemed to be at Rampart. Always. He realized he was glad that Dr. Pritchard had written a note to limit his time to forty hours—Brackett must put in at least seventy, so probably wouldn't even notice how long he was having someone else work.

"Well, howdy, stranger!" said a familiar voice.

"Hey, Dixie."

"What brings you to our neck of the woods? No firemen in the joint right now, so that's not it..."

"Actually, Dix, I got assigned to Dr. Brackett for the next six weeks—I'm surprised you didn't know."

"Really," Dixie said, "now that is _very_ interesting, Roy. Very interesting indeed."

Roy looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Uh, not sure what you mean, Dix."

"Well," Dixie looked around to make sure nobody was overhearing who shouldn't, "it's a poorly kept secret around here that I can pretty much get Kel to do what I want," she said conspiratorially.

"Okay..."

"And, well, let's just say, after the way he handled that family the other day, I gave him a good talking to. No," she revised, "I kicked him from here to Kansas, is more like it. I told him if he knew what was good for him, he'd not only apologize to that family, but make damned sure _you_ got taken care of, _and_ figure out how to get going on some changes around here."

"Sounds like it worked." As Roy explained to her what his duties were for the next few weeks, Dixie clapped her hands together and chortled with glee.

"Just don't let him make you stay here till all hours," Dixie warned.

Roy whipped out the note from Dr. Pritchard and handed it to Dixie for inspection.

"You know, I'm really starting to like this fellow Pritchard," she said. "Man has his head on straight."

"Yep," said Roy. "That he does. And, I think he might just help get mine back that way too." He paused, and looked around the ER. "Dr. Brackett here yet?" he asked.

"Should be rolling in right about …" Dixie looked at the entrance, "now," she concluded, as Brackett walked in, wearing his trademark striped pants and clashing shirt.

Roy shook his head. "How do you do that?" he marveled.

"He's a creature of predictable habits," whispered Dixie.

Kel Brackett strode purposefully to the nurses' station. "Morning, Dix, Roy. DeSoto, let's get some coffee, and head to my office."

"Okay," said Roy, glad they were going to cut to the chase. "See you later, Dix."

They headed to the lounge, silently picked up their coffees, and went to Brackett's office.

"Have a seat, Roy."

Roy sat in one of the chairs in front of Dr. Brackett's desk. They looked at each other for half a minute, which felt like half a day, each wondering how to start.

Roy broke the ice.

"Doc, I'm sorry. I lost my temper on duty, punched a hole in your hospital, and then chewed you out. None of that was called for, and I regret every bit of it. I'm sorry."

Brackett did his eyebrow thing, and sighed. "Roy, I've been thinking about this whole thing a lot. I wish you hadn't broken your hand, and I don't know what was going on in your head when that happened, but you were right about two things. You were right that I didn't handle that family well. I didn't, and I've since been informed that I've done such things equally badly before."

Roy could recall at least one instance where that had happened in his presence—a young boy who had ingested some poison died at Rampart after Roy and John had brought him in, and Brackett completely walked away from the family after he told them their child had died.

Brackett continued. "You were also one of the only people who ever bothered to say anything to me about it. Dixie was the other one, the other day, and I have to say, my ears are still burning from the treatment I got from her."

Roy could only imagine. He'd never been on the receiving end of one of Dixie's tirades, but he heard she was merciless. And always right.

"So, I'm sorry too," said Brackett. "I want you to know that I wrote a letter to the family, not that I expect it to fix anything, but to apologize for how I handled their situation, and to assure them that things will be handled differently in the future." Brackett paused. "That _I _will handle things differently in the future, is what I wrote."

"Thanks, Doc. That means a lot. It really does." Roy had never heard Brackett really apologize before. And changing the wording of what he said was a subtle but important acknowledgment that the error was something he had committed, and not something that had just happened on its own. He guessed that perhaps Dixie had made him rewrite his letter several times, until the wording reflected responsibility.

Brackett continued. "The other thing you're right about is that there are some policies that need to be changed regarding who we transport, and how we do it. Joe had an interesting conversation with Johnny about the hazards of a hot response. I'm glad this all came up—not that I'm glad of anything that happened, mind you—but we folks here at the hospital don't really grasp the hazards of anything that you fellows do out in the field before before the patient gets here.

"But the fact is, Roy, it's not going to be easy to change the law. Right now, the requirement is that patients who are alive and critical are brought in hot. And, since paramedics can't pronounce death on a patient they're working on, and we doctors aren't allowed to order you to stop working on a patient, we end up putting you in a nasty situation."

Roy nodded. "All true, Doc. Every paramedic in the department would tell you the same thing—that it's a hellish ride, coming in hot with someone you know is beyond help. But that's not really the point—a lot of what we do is hellish. The point is, it's dangerous, and it's unnecessary. And those two elements together spell trouble."

"I completely agree. And that's where you come in, Roy. Your job, for the next few weeks, is going to be to do whatever you can to convince the state legislature that the rules need to change. Gather data about MVAs involving emergency vehicles. Get people on ride-alongs. Figure out who to deal with in the legislature—even find someone to sponsor a bill. And to be honest, I don't know how much we can accomplish in the time that you'll be assigned to me, but it will certainly be a start. Every hour you spend on this task is an hour that I don't have. So believe me, anything you can do will be a huge step in the right direction."

Roy looked concerned. "It's a huge, open-ended task, Doc. I don't even know where to start."

"Well, what I was thinking, and feel free to disagree, was that you should start with paramedics in the department. Write up some questions, and get a good set of answers. Talk to paramedics in other departments in the state—San Francisco, Sacramento, San Diego—they all have paramedic programs associated with their fire departments. Then, when you have the facts from the field, see what you think should happen next."

Roy squirmed in his seat. "It'll take a couple days just to talk to the guys in L.A., let alone the other cities. How about if I write a questionnaire, and correspond with the other cities, rather than trying to talk in person?"

"That would be fine—is there someone in the fire department who could make sure the other departments are on board, and will cooperate with you? With us?" asked Brackett.

Roy brought out his packet of paperwork. "Well, Chief Houts himself authorized this assignment, but I'm not so sure he'll have the time to talk to the other department chiefs himself. I'll start with his secretary, though."

"That sounds like a good plan, Roy. A good start." Brackett stood up. "Let me show you the office we have set up for you. It's not much, but you've got a desk and a phone, and the E.R. secretarial staff can type things for you when you need that. It's on the second floor, but that will probably be a better environment to work in, anyhow."

"Yeah, for one thing," say Roy, as they headed up the stairs, "I won't have my co-workers barging in on me all the time."

Brackett showed Roy to a small office at the end of the second floor hallway. "As I said, it's not much, but it should meet your needs."

Brackett was right—it wasn't much at all. But right now, it seemed like just the right thing to Roy.

There was one more thing Roy had to bring up. "Uh, Doc?"

"Yes?"

"I almost hate to mention this, but I'm also supposed to work with Dr. Pritchard every morning at 0800. Will that be okay?" he asked nervously.

"Of course! I wasn't going to pry, but I'm glad you're seeing him. I was really concerned, the other day."

"You mean, the other day when I completely lost it and slammed my fist into the wall and broke my hand? Yeah," sighed Roy, "it was a long time coming, Doc. I've got some things to work out." He stared at the floor.

"Anything we can do to help around here?"

"To be honest, Doc?" Roy looked back up. "Having a different job to do for a while, but still making a difference, is probably the best thing in the world right now. So thanks."

Brackett smiled wryly. "Be sure to thank Dixie, too. She put the idea in my head."

Roy had been dreading what he had to do next. "There is one thing, though." He reached into his envelope of paperwork, and brought out the 40-hour work limit note from Dr. Pritchard, and handed it to Dr. Brackett.

Brackett inspected the note, and chuckled. "I see my reputation as a slave-driver persists. Not a problem, Roy. I know the department is paying you, not the hospital. So what they say, goes. Especially coming from Bill Pritchard. Very sensible man, in my opinion, even if he is a psychiatrist. So make sure you're out of here on time, Roy, and we'll be fine."

Roy mentally heaved a sigh of relief. "Okay, Doc. Thanks. How does 0900 to 1730 sound, with a half-hour for lunch?"

Brackett handed the note back to Roy. "As far as I'm concerned, you can handle your hours however it works for you. I know you're used to working long shifts and having days off, so if that works better for you, that's fine."

Roy shook his head. "No, Joanne is looking forward to my having a nine-to-five job for a while. Wouldn't want to disappoint her. Plus it'll be a nice change of pace for a while."

"Good," said Brackett. "I guess I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "You know where to find me if you need something."

"That I do, Doc. See you later. And thanks."

Roy sat down at his desk. He opened a drawer, found a pen and a pad of paper, and set them on top of the desk.

_Gotta start somewhere_, he thought, and started writing out a list of questions.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10.**

"No, you're not."

"Yes, Gage, I am. It's simply not prudent to—"

"You're _not_ driving the squad, Brice! You're a sub, and plus, I'm senior, so I get to say who—"

"You _never_ drive the squad to incidents, Gage. If you drive to an incident, you'll get out, and you'll be on the wrong side, and you won't know where you're going or what you're doing. You'll go to the wrong compartment, and get the wrong equipment, and it'll be a disaster."

"No, it won't. You'll see."

"I know what I'll see. I'll see you nearly get the door ripped off the squad because you won't remember to check for traffic. I'll see you go around to the front of the squad instead of the back. You simply haven't proven in the past that you're adaptable in the slightest, Gage. It'll be a disaster."

"Not adaptable? Not adap—" Johnny ran his hands through his hair, and took a deep breath. And another one. "All right, Brice. Let's do this. I'll drive, and if any of those things happens—any _one_ of 'em—you call me on it, and _then_ you can drive."

"Excellent plan."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Not adaptable," muttered Johnny, stomping off to the kitchen. "Hmph. We'll see who's not adaptable."

~!~!~!~

BWAAAM, BWWWOOOOM BWAAAH!

"_Squad 51, man unconscious, 1589 Highland Road, 1-5-8-9 Highland Road, cross street Abelson. Time out: 1318._"

Johnny leapt up from the kitchen table, where he had been reading the morning paper, and dashed to the squad. Straight to the passenger's side. Brice was right behind him as Johnny opened the door, got in, and slid all the way across the seat to the driver's side.

He started the engine, and pulled out of the bay.

"That wasn't on your list," Johnny said loudly. "Doesn't count."

"Fine," said Brice.

They drove on in silence—except for the wail of the siren and the occasional screech of tires as Johnny took a corner faster than Roy would have.

"This is it," said Brice, needlessly pointing out the woman waving them down in the middle of the block. Johnny pulled over just past the house's driveway, leaving the back bumper of the squad to point the way for the ambulance. He carefully checked for traffic before opening the door, then purposefully headed to the rear compartment to grab their first-in equipment, as Brice spoke to the woman who flagged them down.

"Oh, please, come quickly! It's my husband—I think it's his heart!" the woman begged, leading them into the house.

"Ma'am, how old is your husband?" asked Brice, as Johnny began the initial assessment of the patient.

"Fifty three," she answered. "And he's had one heart attack already."

"Any medications, or other health conditions?" Brice asked.

"He has some pills he takes, for blood pressure, but that's all."

"Could you please get them for us?"

"Oh, of course," the woman replied, as she dashed off to retrieve the medication.

Johnny was connecting EKG electrodes, in anticipation of Rampart's request to send them a strip. Brice was on the biophone, talking to Rampart, when the woman returned with the bottle. Before Brice had a chance to take the bottle, Johnny shouted out, "Lost his pulse! Starting CPR!"

Brice relayed this information to Rampart as he finished connecting the EKG leads to the electrodes Johnny had placed.

"V-fib," Brice announced, as he saw the irregular bumpy line fluttering on the scope. Brice had the defibrillator paddles gelled and charged.

"Clear!" shouted Brice.

Johnny raised his hands above his shoulders, as Brice applied the paddles to try to shock the man's heart back into a normal rhythm. Johnny continued with the CPR, letting up for a second to get a new reading on the EKG.

"No conversion. Hit him again," Johnny said. Brice did.

Unexpectedly, miracle of miracles, the amorphous wavy line was gone, and the familiar, comforting spikes of a normal sinus rhythm appeared. It was slow—too slow—but it was there. Johnny sat back on his heels for a moment—even just a few minutes of CPR was draining—and then quickly pitched in to help Brice with administering the drugs ordered by Rampart.

"What just happened? What happened?" The man's wife was standing there, clutching the bottle of pills, begging for an explanation.

"Ma'am, his heart stopped beating in the regular way, and the only way that works to change that is with an electrical shock. I know it looks terrible, but he didn't feel a thing," Johnny explained as Brice wrapped the patient up for transport. "We're gonna take him in to Rampart, and the doctors there will be able to tell you more about his condition." He always like to get that in before the family started asking questions he couldn't answer—prognosis was not in his scope of practice, and he didn't want it to be. The woman just nodded, and left the room silently.

Brice looked over at Johnny. "I'll ride in with him, if you want to keep driving."

"Huh?" Johnny looked up in confusion. He and Roy never even needed to check in with each other about who was doing what—they both always just seemed to know. "Sure," he agreed. He packed up the various pieces of equipment, and picked up the medical litter from the living room floor. He took two trips to carry the equipment back to the squad. On his last trip out of the now-empty house, he took a moment to flip the thumb latch on the inside of the front door, rather than leaving it completely unlocked as he left.

Johnny drove the squad to Rampart, pondering his and Brice's first call as a team.

It wasn't bad.

In fact, they'd done a damned good job; they'd worked smoothly together. Not DeSoto-and-Gage smoothly—hell, they were regularly accused of telepathy after their years of working together—but smoothly enough.

_Yep, it was a mighty fine save_, Johnny thought. _And I already miss Roy an awful lot_.

~!~!~!~

Johnny backed the squad into one of the parking slots at Rampart's emergency entrance, next to the Mayfair ambulance that he assumed to be the one that carried Brice and their patient to the hospital. He went through the automatic double doors, and straight to the nurses' station.

"Hey, Dix," he said absently. "Seen Brice?"

"Oh, are you with him today?" Dixie asked.

Johnny looked up sharply, brows furrowed. "No, _he's_ with _me_. Temporarily. Just some extra shifts for him. Till Roy is back on the job."

"I see," Dixie said, the corner of her lip twitching. "And yes, I have seen him. He was just here, getting some supplies—maybe he's in the lounge getting some coffee?"

"Oh," said Johnny, glowering.

"Roy always waits for you before he gets coffee, right?"

"Yeah," Johnny said darkly.

"Oh, speaking of Roy—he's going to be working here for the next few weeks."

Johnny looked up, the furrows replaced by a raised eyebrow. "No kidding? What on? Who with?"

"Oh, I think he'll want to tell you all about it. He actually asked me to send you to his office next time you came by on a run, if you had time."

Now both eyebrows were raised. "His _office_? _This_ oughta be good," Johnny said. "I better call in available and tell Brice where I'm goin'." He reached for the radio, and then looked up at Dixie. "Uh, Dix, where _am_ I goin'?"

Dixie smiled. "221-B, take a right out of the elevator, and go to the end of the hallway."

"Thanks," Johnny said, waving the radio at her. "Callin' in, then talkin' to Brice, then goin' on up."

~!~!~!~

Roy looked up from his pad of paper when he heard a tentative tap on the door. "Come in," he said.

"Well, hey, partner! Lookit you, big man with his own office at Rampart!"

"Yeah, well, they had to do _something_ with me for the next few weeks."

Johnny looked at the sparse office—desk, phone, chair, not much else.

"So, uh, what _are_ they doing with you?"

Roy handed him a sheet of paper. The first thing he'd done was to write himself his job description, at least how he saw it. He hadn't had a chance to run it past Brackett yet, but he would.

Johnny perched on the corner of the desk to read Roy's neat script. "No shit!" he said. "That's a great idea!" He looked down at the paper again. "A really great idea."

"Brackett sent a letter to Chief Houts requesting a senior paramedic be assigned to him for six weeks, to start working on making some policy changes," Roy said.

"Huh. That was good timing," Johnny said, "for you to get this gig."

"I don't think that's exactly it."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Let's put it this way: the letter was dated the fifth."

Johnny counted backwards in his head. "Wow, the same day you, uh, busted your hand, right?"

Roy nodded. "From what I've pieced together, Dixie may have had something to do with the letter to Houts. And, get this—Brackett actually apologized to me."

Johnny whistled. "Now _that_ I wouldn't have minded seeing."

"Yeah, well. I guess he's pretty shook up too—a whole bunch of people came down on him about the other day."

"Huh," said Johnny. He handed the paper back to Roy. "So, what're you gonna tackle first?"

Roy sighed. "To be honest, it's such a huge thing, I don't even know where to start. But I broke it down into three parts, really."

"Uh-huh?" Johnny encouraged. He stood up from his perch on the edge of the desk and paced the room as Roy talked.

"First, talk to a bunch of other paramedics, from all over the state, see what kinds of things they think need to get changed. Second, talk to Brackett and his counterparts in other counties and see what they think. See if we can get to some common ground. Finally, figure out who the people are in Sacramento that we need to be in on this."

"It's a big job," Johnny said. "But it's gotta get done, and I think it _can_ get done. I mean, there's new procedures we're allowed to do all the time, and every time they add something new to our scope of practice, it must have to get approved by the legislature, right? Probably worth finding out how that happens. 'Cause it seems like your stuff is gonna have to happen through the same channels."

Roy nodded. "Top of my list. For instance, when was it—last year? When we could start doing needle decompressions for pneumothorax. That was a big thing, and it's not like Brackett just suddenly said, 'Okay, boys, I'm gonna show you this new thing you can do now.' Someone determined the need, got it added to the scope of practice, and determined what the training should be."

"And when they were first working on passing the law to legalize the paramedic program, wasn't there some assemblyman, or senator, or something, that was on Brackett's case to go to Sacramento to testify in favor of the program? Remember, back when Brackett wasn't gonna, then he did?" Johnny added, in the inarticulate-yet-perfectly-clear way that was unique to him.

"Yeah, of course I remember. I had to look him up—State Assemblyman Michael Wolski. He's a state senator now, and still serves on the Department of Health subcommittee regarding the program. I'm gonna put a call in to his office first thing this afternoon."

Johnny was out of questions for Roy, but didn't really want to go find Brice.

"So, who's my sub today?" Roy asked.

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Walkin' rulebook, Roy. Thinks I don't know how to drive. Just 'cause you hafta drive all the time on calls doesn't mean I can't when I have a sub, right?"

"Sure. Just don't tell him _why_ I always drive, all right?"

"Course not! What kinda traitor do ya think I am, anyhow?" Johnny looked offended. "Besides, he just thinks it's 'cause you pull rank, or 'cause you're scared of my driving."

"You're a perfectly fine driver. I just don't want to throw up in the squad—you know that." Roy paused. "You're the only one at 51s who knows that. And let's keep it that way, all right?"

"Honest, Roy! I told ya! Sheesh!"

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

"_Squad 51, stand by for response._"

"Well, shit. Back to the rulebook. See ya, Roy."

Roy watched as Johnny skidded out of the room.

He went back to the list of questions he was writing, and pretended to himself that he was jealous not to be going along with the squad.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

Roy DeSoto walked through his front door after his first day of light duty, and did something he'd always wanted to do.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called out. It was the high point of his day.

Joanne yelled out from the kitchen. "In here! Up to my elbows, sorry!"

Roy made his way through the house to the kitchen. Joanne was, indeed, up to her elbows, in what looked to be the makings of a meatloaf.

"Sorry, just about done here," Joanne said, patting the mixture into a bread pan. "Could you get the faucet for me?"

"That's romantic," Roy said.

"Well, not having dinner is _certainly_ unromantic," said Joanne, as she rinsed gory bits of goo off her hands, then scrubbed as thoroughly as a surgeon. "And so are meaty, eggy, bread-crumby hands. Am I right?"

Roy pulled his now-sanitized wife in for a kiss. "As always."

Joanne inspected Roy's face. "So. What's the scoop?" She quickly shoved the pan of meatloaf in the preheated oven, and pointed to the living room couch. "We have ten whole minutes before I have to pick up the kids from the Wilsons' house."

Roy sat next to Joanne, and took her hand. "I don't even know where to start." _And I wish I didn't have to talk any more today_.

"How about if you start with anything you don't want to say in front of the kids?" Joanne prompted reasonably.

Roy sighed. "Okay. Yeah, so the first two hours of my morning, then—you get the special ten-minute version. Cap was … well, he was really nice. That sounds so pathetic, but it's true. Sure, he's disappointed, but who wouldn't be after what I did?"

Joanne frowned. "No bad-mouthing yourself, all right? What good does _that_ do?"

"None," Roy said flatly. He tried to wiggle his fingers in the cast, to try to feel something. Anything. He was rewarded with a sharp twinge. It hurt, so he relaxed a little.

"What are you _doing_?" Joanne asked sharply. "Ever since you got that cast on, you look at it, almost angrily, like it did something to you, and then you get this look, like …"

Roy waited, expecting her to say something along the lines of "like it bit you," or "like you hate it."

"… like you actually _like_ having a broken hand." She paused. "It's weird, Roy, and I don't like not getting what's going on in your head. Please," she implored. "Please. We actually _talked_ the other day, at the hospital, but now you're pushing away again."

Roy could feel himself starting to turn inwards. "It's, uh, hard to explain."

"Try me," Joanne said tersely.

"Okay," Roy said suddenly. "Nothing to lose, here. You're right—it's weird. So here goes: I just can't feel anything, Jo—not a thing, except for crazy mad. I can't get calm—dull, flat, sure, but not serene. I can't get upset, and I _sure_ as heck can't get happy. But one thing I can feel? It's pain. So yeah, it's weird. I wiggle my fingers, it hurts, I feel something, and then I can relax, just a little bit." He waited for the shocked look to appear on Joanne's face.

It didn't.

She nodded. "Okay. Thanks for telling me."

Roy stared back at her, blankly. "I thought that would freak you out."

Joanne sighed. "Honey, what freaks me out, is you not acting remotely like the person I married. Not even remotely like the person you were a year ago. Knowing what's going on inside your head, even if you think it's strange, hell, even if it _is_ strange—which I guess I have to admit it is, since we're being refreshingly honest here—_that_ doesn't bother me at all."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I'm going to call the Wilsons," Joanne said. "We need more than—" she looked at her watch— "two and a half more minutes, here. Stay put."

Roy quietly wiggled his fingers again as Joanne left the room. He heard the soft padding of her slippered feet as she went into the kitchen. He could hear that she had a brief conversation on the phone, and then she returned.

"The shrink is great," Roy blurted, as Joanne sat down next to him again. He shook his head, like a dog shaking water off his ears. "He, uh, doesn't have an easy fix. Not that I thought he would. But I guess I, uh …"

Joanne just waited.

"I guess maybe he can help me get to where I need to go." Roy looked at his feet. He didn't wiggle his fingers. "He says he understands the whole not-feeling-anything freakshow. I believe him."

"Good."

"I'm, uh, gonna see him first thing every morning, before I go to Rampart."

"Rampart?" Joanne queried.

"Yeah, that's another story. But Jo, Dr. Pritchard—that's his name—the thing is, he gets it. He spends his days talking with stressed out, pissed off, burned out firemen. He's a good listener—just as good as Cap. Maybe better, 'cause he doesn't have four other idiots he's responsible for at the exact same time as I'm sitting in his office like a pile of trash someone forgot to take out—sorry, sorry," Roy said, fending off the protest he knew would come from Joanne.

Joanne did speak up, though. "You know, I'd be surprised if Hank hadn't had his own share of troubles. I don't think you get to be as good a listener as he is if you haven't needed a good listener yourself at some point."

"Right again," Roy said.

Joanne held up a hand, like a policeman directing traffic. "Don't tell me anything he told you," she said. "I'm not asking, and it's none of my business. I just thought, is all." She paused. "But we digress."

"I've been getting good at that."

"That's the spirit—some nice positive language there," Joanne said wryly.

"But we digress again," said Roy. He didn't say anything for a second, then continued, looking at an invisible spot on the wall, far across the room. "I'm not really sure what else to say."

Joanne cleared her throat. "Roy?" she said quietly.

"Mm hm?"

"Don't feel like you have to tell me everything, okay? I mean," she amended, "if there are things you _want_ to tell me, about what you're working on with that doctor, I _want_ to hear. Anything. You know that."

Roy nodded.

Joanne found her own imaginary picture to stare at on the wall."But I've been realizing—there's so much I don't understand about your job, your life for those ten days a month that you're not at home. There's no way I can really get it, is there?" she said quietly.

"No," Roy whispered.

"I can accept that," said Joanne. "As long as you can, too. We can't share everything," she said, taking Roy's good hand in hers, "and that's okay. It has to be okay."

"It will be, Jo." Roy looked his wife in the eye, really looked at her, for the first time in days. "_We_ will be. _I_ will be."

~!~!~!~

It was taco night at Station 51. Marco always got a helper in the kitchen when he made tacos for dinner, because of all the extra chopping for the fixings. He usually asked Roy to help—he didn't trust Gage with a knife, Chet was a disaster in the kitchen, Cap always had paperwork, and Stoker wasn't much for conversation. But Roy was out, of course, and the very last person Marco wanted to spend kitchen time with was Craig Brice—but he and Johnny were out on a run anyhow. So Marco went with the potential boredom of a silent hour in the kitchen over any of the other possibilities.

"Okay, Marco, I did the tomatoes and the peppers. What next?" Mike asked, setting the two bowls on the table with the lettuce and peppers he'd chopped.

"Oh, last but not least, Mike—you always do the onions last, so you're not crying all over everything else," Marco said, as he stirred the taco meat.

"I was kinda hoping you'd forgotten the onions," said Stoker. But he selected two large onions from the bag in the pantry, grabbed a box of tissues from the day room, and started peeling.

Marco popped a tray of taco shells in the oven. "Gotta remember to take these out if we get a call," he said, "if we don't wanna be the first firemen in the world to burn down our own station."

"Yeah, that'd be historic," said Mike, shucking brown onion skins onto a growing pile.

They worked quietly for a few minutes. The silence was punctuated by the occasional sniffle from Stoker.

"Shit. I hate chopping onions." Mike dumped a large pile of minced onion into a bowl.

Marco looked over at Stoker's work. "Looks like you've had plenty of practice, my friend—that was fast work."

Stoker swept the onion skins into the trash can, and washed his hands at the sink before splashing his face with cool water. He dried off with paper towels, and gave one more good snort into a tissue. "Yeah, I'll have to show you my secret technique for quickly vanquishing the dreaded onion some time. Hey, we could gear up, and chop onions in total comfort some time."

Marco tittered at the image of the expression on Captain Stanley's face as he walked into a kitchen inhabited by two firemen, in full gear and SCBAs, chopping onions.

Chet walked in. "Did you just _giggle_, Lopez?"

"Okay, picture this." Marco held up his hands like a cameraman framing an image. "Cap walks into the kitchen, and Stoker and I are in full gear, SCBAs and all, chopping onions."

Chet stared openly at Marco. He turned to Stoker. "Has he been smoking something I should ask him to share?"

Mike shook his head. "Guess you just had to be there."

"Yeah, well I _was_ here, but now I'm not. Yell when chow's on, all right?" Chet left the kitchen.

"_I_ thought it was funny," Mike said.

They started setting the table.

"Mike, can I ask you something?" Marco asked suddenly.

"Shoot."

"What do you think is up with Roy? I mean," Marco said, filling a pitcher with water and setting it on the table, "that's just so not like him."

Mike stopped what he was doing, and looked right at Marco. "I think the job gets to us all. I think if you're married, it's probably hard to know that your spouse will never, ever understand the job. I think DeSoto feels responsible for the entire universe, and it all got to be too much."

Marco raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected much of a response at all, let alone a complete and multi-sentence one. "Okay, so I guess you've been thinking about this some."

"Yep."

"What gets to you? I mean, if you don't mind me asking," Marco continued boldly.

"Being safe while you guys aren't," Mike responded instantly.

"Huh." Marco looked down at the silverware drawer, and but didn't yet take out any utensils. "Hadn't really thought of that."

Mike anticipated Marco's next question. "I think Roy'll be okay," he said, "if he can talk to someone who gets it."

Marco turned to face Mike. "We all get it, though, Mike. Heck, Gage does the same darned job as him. Why doesn't he talk to us, or even Johnny?"

Mike shook his head. "Sometimes, Marco, you have to talk to people who don't really know you. Neutral parties. If you've got some really wicked shit brewing in your head, you've gotta get it out, but do you really want to spill it to the guys you live with a third of the time? Don't think so."

"Huh," Marco said again, surprised by Stoker for the third time in less than two minutes. "I guess I hadn't really thought of that, either."

"Cap'll probably have to send Roy to the department shrink. It's SOP to mandate counseling for someone when they've done something like what Roy did."

Marco reached into the silverware drawer and got out six place settings. "You think it might help him?" he asked carefully.

"Yep." Stoker said. "Pretty sure it will." He turned his back to Marco and looked through the glass window of the oven containing the taco shells. "Those look ready." He stared into the oven, watching the taco shells that didn't really need any further attention.

~!~!~!~

Johnny sat slumped in the passenger's seat of the squad as Brice methodically backed the vehicle into the apparatus bay. Satisfied with his parking job, Brice killed the engine and silently got out of the squad. Johnny remained in the squad for another minute, holding the clipboard with the run report and pretending to check it over. Once Brice was out of the bay, Johnny took the complete paperwork from the clipboard, exited the squad, and trudged to the office to file it.

Captain Stanley looked up from his desk when Johnny walked in. "John? Why so glum?"

"Huh?" Johnny ducked his head as he placed the paperwork in the appropriate tray. "Oh, nothing important."

"Hold it!"

Johnny froze.

"Okay, Gage. Look up," ordered Cap.

Johnny raised his head minutely.

"At the _ceiling_," Cap sighed.

Johnny raised his head, and his hair fell away from his forehead, revealing the sharp line of an incipient bruise, running vertically from his hairline to bridge of his nose.

"What happened to your forehead?"

"Nothing," Johnny mumbled.

"Okay, then, I'll have Brice come in and take a look."

"All right, all right," Johnny surrendered. "Ran into the side mirror, getting out of the squad," he muttered.

Cap stared silently, eyebrows raised. "Uh huh. How did you manage that?"

"'Cause I never drive, Cap. That's how."

"Okay," admitted Cap. "I'm lost. Help me out here, John. How does _not_ _driving_ translate into running into the side mirror? And sit down—you're giving me a stiff neck already."

Johnny flopped his body bonelessly into the chair in front of the desk. "Habit."

"Habit?"

"Yep."

Cap rolled his eyes. "You've been taking elocution lessons from Stoker, I see. Would you kindly elaborate for me?"

"Okay, yeah," Johnny grumbled. "Roy always drives to the scene, right? So when I get out of the squad, I close the door, and spin to the right to go to the compartment on the passenger side of the squad. Except if _I'm _driving, like today, then everything's backwards, so when I spun the same way I _always_ do, WHAMMO! No compartment—mirror."

Cap pondered the accident's cause. "Hmph. So what does that tell you?"

Johnny uttered a sigh that could rival any teenager's. "That I'm not '_adaptable_'" he said, gesturing quotation marks in mid air around his last word. "And now Brice gets to drive for the rest of our shifts."

Cap frowned. "That doesn't seem reasonable."

"We did kinda have a deal," Johnny admitted.

"I don't know, Gage. Seems like if you're gonna be 'adaptable,'" he said, mimicking Johnny's signed punctuation, "you need to drive half the time. Maybe even more, for a while, till you get some new habits."

"Seriously?" Johnny said, brightening a bit.

"I'd say so. In fact, I think I should make it an order, that the paramedics split the driving 50/50, so nobody's stuck in a rut. Think about it—what if you're working with a sub, and both people are always the driver, or both people are always the passenger? This sort of thing could happen all the time!" Cap said. "Yes, I'll make it a standing order: paramedics switch off driving on every run."

Johnny sat, grinning. "Starting now?" he asked.

"Starting now," Cap confirmed.

"Thanks, Cap!" Johnny leapt out of his seat and trotted out of the office. "Hey, Briii-iice!" he sang into the bay.

"Dismissed," Cap said to himself.

**TBC**

A/N: I hate oven cleaner fumes, and recently contemplated donning an SCBA to clean an oven. Had to work the stupid thought into a story, even though I never did clean the oven.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

Hank Stanley answered the phone on his desk. "L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking."

"_Hey, Cap, it's Roy_."

"Roy! How are you, pal?"

"_Not bad, Cap. Just over at Rampart, you know, doing my job._"

"And how's that going?"

"_Slowly. I'm at the point now where I at least know who to try to talk to, and what to say to them when I actually reach them. Which brings me to why I'm calling. I'm hoping to get some opinions from Johnny and Brice about a few things, and I wondered if I could come by before your next shift._"

"Sure! Although, tonight, Stoker's on for dinner; you could come by for dinner if you want and talk to the guys then. You want him to add your name to the pot?"

Roy hesitated. "_Uh, I'm supposed to be home for dinner tonight. Kinda getting to be a habit, you know_?"

Cap knew—it had been two weeks since Roy began his desk work, and he could only imagine how Roy's family must be getting used to having him around on a normal schedule. "All right, then, next A-shift when Brice is subbing is Thursday, the day after tomorrow. How 'bout you come in first thing—you know where to find us."

"_Sure, Cap. That sounds great. You sure you don't mind my taking up some of their chore time?_"

"No, no problem. Say," Cap interrupted himself. "Can you talk to those two separately, do you think? Or did you need to see them together?"

"_Doesn't matter. Why do you ask?_"

Cap was silent for a moment. "Well … without getting into details, I think Gage needs to … decompress a bit."

Roy grinned into the phone. "_Yeah, not surprised. How many shifts has he done with Brice now? Can't be too many, since Brice is still working C-shift as well._"

"Oh, next one will only be his third, but I think it's fair to say that there's some tension—maybe more than I was expecting," Cap admitted.

"_Well, I'll see if I can apply some of Dr. Pritchard's listening strategies and drag it out of him_."

"Good," replied Cap. "Hang on a second," he said, closing the door to his office. "Listen, I don't mean to pry, but how's that going for you?"

Roy was prepared for this line of questioning. "_Good, Cap. It's going good. This morning, he had Joanne come in too—or I should say, we had a session with both of us. It was … a good idea._"

"Good."

"_Yeah. I think I'm maybe seeing things looking up a bit. Probably doesn't hurt that the work for __Brackett is going well too—I'll fill you in more when I come by on Thursday morning._"

"Okay. See you then, Roy. And—I'm glad things are going better for you."

"_Yeah, Cap; me too._"

~!~!~!~

Roy placed the phone back on the cradle, and looked over at the wall clock. 4:20, he thought—too early to knock off, but probably too late to reach anyone he hadn't tried yet that day. He drummed his pencil on the desk, shuffled through a pile of papers, and finally just put everything in its proper place and got up to leave.

The phone rang just as Roy was about to open his office door.

"Hello, this is Roy DeSoto."

"_Mister DeSoto? Please hold for a call from Senator Wolski_."

Roy quickly sat back down at his desk. Wolski, one of the original state legislature proponents of the paramedic program, was a busy man. Roy had been trying to reach Wolski for the past week, to no avail. While he would likely be late getting home, he couldn't put this call off. He listened to the annoying muzak for several minutes, while Wolski was presumably finishing up his previous call. He wasn't sure what Wolski was going to want to talk about, so he got out his latest set of draft proposals just in case.

Finally, a voice came on the line.

"_Mr. DeSoto?_"

"Yes, Roy DeSoto here."

"_Michael Wolski here; sorry to keep you waiting._"

"No problem, thanks for getting back to me."

"So_, Mr. DeSoto, I understand you're working with Kelly Brackett on proposing some changes to how paramedic responses work. I was wondering if you could fill me in on what you're thinking._"

"Absolutely. First, I appreciate your calling me back—I know you're very busy."

"_Well, I'm busy with things that are important—and I consider what you have to say important, since I know you've been a paramedic for as long as the program has existed. So, in the spirit of keeping me busy, carry on_."

Roy sighed with relief—he was actually getting somewhere. "Well, first, I've been talking with paramedics from across the state, as well as the medical directors from L.A., San Francisco, and San Diego, so what I'm going to sum up here is not just my opinion, but comes from a variety of sources. I'm planning to type up my interviews with various people and send them to you and anyone else who needs this information."

"_Excellent. Can you give me a summary?_"

"There are two main things that we feel need to be considered. First, driving emergency vehicles with lights and sirens on—what we call a hot response—is extremely dangerous, and there need to be strict guidelines about when this is and isn't done, especially on the way to the hospital, when we already know what the situation is."

"_Makes sense,_" said Wolski. "_What else?_"

"Second, there are situations where a patient is truly beyond hope—still technically alive, because the paramedics are providing CPR, but with absolutely no chance of recovery. We believe that the physician in charge of the case should have the option to declare death based on information transmitted by the paramedics, and thus end treatment."

Wolski whistled over the line. "_Now that's a biggie._"

"Yes, it is," replied Roy. "But it ties in directly with the first concern—a hot response with a patient who's in essence dead already is a terrible risk. But, consider that in certain cases of obvious death—decapitation or advanced decomposition—medical control can already declare death remotely. Adding specific criteria to end treatment—really specific—could increase the safety of paramedics, ambulance drivers, and the public, without jeopardizing the health of a patient."

Wolski didn't reply for a moment. "_Well, Mr. DeSoto, you know you're right, and I know you're right. But whether the physicians will go for it is a whole different ball of wax._"

"Dr. Brackett is on board," said Roy. "He's been working on some criteria that make sense. Right now they're all a combination of asystole—that's when there's no spontaneous electrical activity in the heart—and some other specific injury that together add up to no chance."

"_Hmm. Well, I'm no medico, so I can't say what makes sense or not, there. But I can tell you for sure—there will be a lot of docs who were against the paramedic program in the first place who will definitely be against the idea of doctors being allowed to stop treatment over the phone, as it were_."

"I'm sure there will be," Roy replied. "But, there's a pretty convincing medical analogy. Risk versus benefit. Do the risks to the public and everyone in the ambulance of a hot transport of a patient who will be declared dead upon arrival at the hospital outweigh the benefit to the patient? That's the crucial thing to consider."

"_I can't argue with you, DeSoto—but others can, and will._"

There was silence on the line for a few moments, and Wolski continued. "_I'll tell you what. I'm going to be down in L.A. in ten days or so, for some other business. I'll have some spare time during that trip—not a lot, but some. Why don't the three of us—you, me, and Dr. Brackett—get together for some face-to-face conversation. I could come down to your hospital—Rampart, is it?—and we could sit down and talk about how to get this ball rolling._"

"That would be great," Roy said. "I don't know Dr. Brackett's calendar by heart, but I'm sure he'll be able to make time."

They discussed dates, and Roy promised to get back to Senator Wolski the next day with a firm commitment from Dr. Brackett.

"Thanks again, Senator, for getting back to me."

"_Oh, my pleasure, Mr. DeSoto—I look forward to meeting you when I come down to L.A._"

"Likewise. Have a good night."

Roy hung up his phone once again. He put away his papers, organized his desk, and turned off his office light as he headed out the door to go home. As he locked his office, he caught his reflection in the window. He was smiling. Just a little bit, but it was there.

"Huh."

~!~!~!~

_The following day, 0800._

Bill Pritchard poked his head out of his office. "Morning, Roy. Come on in."

"Hi, Bill."

They took their customary seats. Roy knew the drill—he was supposed to start talking with whatever was on his mind, even if it didn't seem relevant to the Roy DeSoto Rehabilitation Project.

"I had a little breakthrough, I think," Roy said.

"Really? Let's hear it," Pritchard replied.

Roy recounted his conversation with Wolski from the previous afternoon. Pritchard listened, with his hands interlocked, index fingers steepled under his chin.

"So, a breakthrough in your project," Pritchard reflected back at Roy. "Good."

"Yeah, but Doc?" Roy looked back at him. "It made me _happy_. I mean, I actually felt something, something positive. It was just a little glimpse—fleeting, even. But it was real. And I can't remember the last time that happened."

"Even better," said Pritchard. "Progress on two fronts, Roy."

"But Doc, when I got home that afternoon? I told Joanne about the whole thing—what had happened, how I'd felt—but the feeling was gone. It was like I remembered the feeling, but couldn't get it back."

Pritchard shook his head. "Don't minimize it, Roy. It happened, and you know it happened. Just like if you hurt yourself—you can't actually physically get the pain back, but you can remember it happened, right? You can't actually make yourself feel an emotion again by thinking about it, but it's important to remember that you had that emotion. It was there."

"And it'll be there again, right? That's what you're getting at."

Pritchard nodded. "You bet."

Roy sat silently for many seconds. "I hope so, Doc. I sure hope so."

~!~!~!~

Thursday, 0730.

Roy parked his convertible in the lot behind Station 51 for the first time in over two weeks. He looked at the sky, and decided to put the top up just in case. As he flipped the latches that held the folding roof in place, he realized that he'd never been absent from Station 51 for this long before—ever—except when he'd been physically injured. At that thought, he looked as his cast—dingy now, with two weeks of wear and tear—and remembered that he _was_ actually physically injured. He laughed, but not with humor.

"Well, I guess that's the least of my worries, isn't it."

"What's the least of your worries?"

Roy jumped. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud, and certainly hadn't noticed Mike Stoker getting out of his pickup truck.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," said Stoker. "Good to see you."

"Good to be here," Roy replied automatically. "Cap here? I don't see his car." They walked to the back door together, and entered the kitchen.

"No—which is odd, since he's usually here even before me." Stoker headed straight for the stove, picked up the coffee pot, sniffed it, made a face, and poured the remainder of the pot down the sink. He set up the percolator with fresh water and coffee, and turned on the stove burner.

_Mike never could stand stale coffee_, Roy thought, as he sat back in his chair and smiled.

Stoker turned around, and caught Roy grinning at him.

"What's so funny?"

And Roy sat up straight in his chair. "It _is_ good to be here, Mike. It really is!" He realized how odd he sounded, and sat back again.

Mike looked him over, and sat down across from him. "First time in a while you could say that, isn't it."

Roy looked back at Mike. "Yeah, well, I guess it was pretty obvious to everybody except me that I wasn't doing so hot."

Mike nodded. "You doing better?"

"Sort of. I guess. Maybe."

They sat so silently that they could hear the percolator starting to bubble.

"Doc Pritchard still there?" Mike asked quietly.

Roy raised his eyebrows at this confession and door-opener. "Yeah. He's a good guy."

"Kept _me_ in this business when I was about to quit. I hope he can do the same for you."

Roy was dying to ask, but knew it wouldn't be appropriate. Instead, he replied honestly. "I think he can. I've been awfully burned out, Mike. I was ready to give up, and I didn't even know it."

"Thought so."

The percolator stopped its bubbling. Mike got up, poured two mugs of coffee, and sat back down again, handing one to Roy.

"I was liking being an engineer—really liking it—until the first time I was operating the pumps and one of you guys got hurt, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do. Kind of took a nosedive, went into a tailspin. Pritchard—well, let's just say, if he hadn't talked me down, helped me land that plane safely, and then helped me take off again on my own, I wouldn't be here talking to you right now."

"You'd've quit?"

Mike didn't say anything.

_Oh_.

"Sorry, Mike."

"What for? That's over and done with. Plus, I brought it up. But one thing, Roy—"

Roy met Mike's eyes.

"Yeah?"

"I had to… to dig beyond the surface problem. Beyond just the problems with the job. Someone other than Pritchard might've let me go when I was on my first upswing. But Bill—he knew I had to dig deeper, and he knew it would hurt like hell, and thank God, he did it anyhow. So just..."

Roy let Mike be silent for a few seconds.

"... just let him dig, Roy. Or take the shovel when he hands it to you, and start digging yourself. Even if it's wretched. That's all I'm saying."

Roy nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Mike looked out the back window to the parking lot. "Here's Cap. I'll see you later." Mike set his coffee mug gently in the sink, and went through the door to the empty apparatus bay.

Two seconds later, the back door swung open.

"Morning, Cap."

"Howdy, Roy. Looks like Stoker's been here." Cap poured himself a cup of coffee. "Refill?"

Roy didn't answer.

"DeSoto? You with me here? Coffee?"

Roy looked up, and shook his head. "No thanks, Cap. Just had a … had a cup with Mike. I'm fine for now."

"Okay, suit yourself. My office?"

Roy stood up. "Sure." He hesitated. "Actually, can I have a minute?"

"Of course. No hurry—come on back whenever you're ready."

"Thanks." Roy watched Cap leave, and then decided to pour himself another cup after all. He sat at the table, by himself, for the five minutes it took him to finish his second cup of Stoker's finest coffee. He washed his mug, along with Mike's, and set them in the dish drainer carefully, so they wouldn't knock together and crack.

Roy left the kitchen for the office, and closed the door on his way in.

"Have a seat, Roy. And tell me, how's it going?"

Roy settled in.

"The work for Brackett is going fine. And I _think_ I'm doing better, personally."

Cap frowned. "You think?"

"Hard to explain, Cap. Yeah, things are looking up—for the first time in a while. But I'm pretty sure I still have some work to do. I, uh, think kind of a lot of work, actually."

"Okay." Cap looked at Roy carefully. "You gonna be up to talking with Gage and Brice today?"

Roy sighed. "Yeah. I mean, I think so." He doodled absently on the corner of the notepad he'd brought with him. "Maybe I better talk to Brice first—that's how you know you're off kilter, when you'd rather talk to Craig Brice than your best friend, right?"

Cap smiled. "Oh, I don't know, Roy. Brice is predictable—that's one thing you can say about him. But Gage? You never know what prize you're gonna get from _that_ cereal box."

Roy startled himself by laughing out loud. _Mood swings, anyone?_ "True, Cap. True. You never know. But you know what? I can handle him, as long as he's not in one of his dramatically maudlin moods."

Cap snorted. "I'll make you a deal—I'll check him out before I send him in. If he's maudlin, you just talk to Brice, and we'll call it a day. No sense in you having to sort Gage out if he's in a funk."

"Good plan, Cap. Venting, I can handle. But funk? Not today."

"We'll just have to see what we get, then." Cap stood up. "Office is yours for the morning, pal. I'm gonna put off my paperwork till the afternoon, and if we have a busy shift? Oh well, tomorrow is an other day."

As Captain Stanley opened the door, Roy could hear a familiar whistling.

"Hello-ho! Anyone here?" Johnny called out. "Roy? I saw your car—don't you try and hide on me!"

Cap and Roy looked at each other. "Not maudlin, then," said Cap. "C'mon, let's have a cup of coffee with that fool till the other guys come in."

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13.

Cap and Roy stood up to leave Cap's office. Roy left his notepad behind, figuring he'd use Cap's office to talk to Johnny and Brice individually, later. As he dropped the pad, he noted the doodle he'd drawn absentmindedly in the corner while he was talking to Cap. It was a tiny shovel. He recalled Mike's advice—let Pritchard dig, or pick up the shovel and dig himself, till he got to the real root of the problem. Whatever _that _was.

"You coming, DeSoto?"

"Yep."

Roy followed Captain Stanley out of the office, and braced himself for Johnny in cheerful mode.

"Hey, Pal! What're you doin' here? Wanna cuppa coffee?" Johnny was standing by the stove, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stirred too much sugar into his coffee.

"Sure, Junior." Roy grabbed the mug he'd used earlier with Stoker, and held it out to Johnny. "Fill 'er up."

Johnny pulled out a chair, and perched himself on the back, with his feet on the seat.

"Damn it, Gage, how many times do I have to tell you …" Cap swore.

Johnny blushed, and seated himself properly. "Sorry, Cap. Um, so Roy, what're you doin' here?"

"What, a guy's not allowed to visit his station?" Roy teased.

Johnny glowered at him. "Aw, c'mon, Roy; you know what I mean. What's up?"

"Well," Roy said, "I told you the other day, when you were over at our place for dinner, about the project the department's got me on, right?"

Johnny nodded.

"So, I'm at the point now where I need to get some opinions from the best paramedics about what they see as current problems in the field."

"Oh," said Johnny, looking slightly deflated.

Roy sighed. "And you're the first one I wanted to talk to."

"Oh," said Johnny, brightening up again. "I thought you must be here for Brice, since you could've asked me stuff the other day at your house."

"You're too sensitive for your own good, Johnny. I didn't ask you then, since I wasn't sure what the questions were yet, and because the kids wanted to see you, and because Joanne had forbidden us from talking business."

"Oh, yeah," said Johnny. "Forgot about that part." He finished his first cup of coffee, and hopped up for a refill.

Roy watched as Johnny loaded his coffee up with the sugar again. "That's, uh, kind of a lot, even for you."

"I could tell it was Stoker's coffee—he makes it so strong I gotta put a lotta sugar in." He looked around. "Where is the guy, anyhow?"

"Probably in the bay, with the engine, like always. I was having coffee with him before you showed up, and then he went out there."

Johnny sat at the kitchen table with his syrupy brew. "So, Roy, what are you gonna ask me and Brice about? I'm gettin' kinda curious."

Roy pulled out a copy of his questionnaire. "Well, you know what my project is about, right?"

"Sure," said Johnny. "Looking at changes to how we respond to and from certain kinds of incidents, and lookin' at maybe changing the regs so the docs can tell us to quit and come in cold."

"Yeah, that's a good sum-up. The more I look at this stuff, the more I'm convinced that we shouldn't be going in hot to every rescue we do. And that there are patients who are beyond saving, where the docs should be able to tell us to stop. Not just for human dignity—that's not the point—but because now that I've done some research, I'm finding out about lots and lots of paramedics, ambulance drivers, and patients who get hurt and killed in crashes. Not to mention the occupants of the other vehicles involved in those accidents."

"Huh. Well, I dunno, Roy. We did know this was a risky business when we signed on. Plus, what advice could _we_ give to the docs about when to tell us to quit working on someone? I mean, that's kinda their thing, right?"

Roy shook his head. "I'm not working on that directly—Dr. Brackett is working on some ideas there. But take that guy we brought in on, um, my last shift with you. You and I both knew he wasn't gonna make it. Brackett knew he wasn't gonna make it. And, more importantly, we all knew _why_ we were sure the guy wasn't gonna make it."

"Severe brain injury, and flatline on the EKG," said Johnny.

"Yep."

"But not responding to an incident with lights and sirens? I dunno, Roy."

Roy looked at Johnny intently. "How many accidents involving emergency vehicles do you think there were nationwide last year?"

Johnny sipped his coffee. "I dunno. Maybe a dozen?"

"Not even close. I started looking _just_ at ambulances, and got over two dozen last year alone. That I found. And that's just _ambulances_, Johnny." Roy watched Johnny's eyebrows disappear towards his hairline. "Not even fire trucks and squads and the like. And you know what else?"

"I'm listening, Roy."

"Apparently, people are only reporting crashes with injuries, because all these crashes had injuries requiring hospital treatment in at least one person involved. And half of the crashes—_half_, Johnny—had fatalities."

Johnny whistled. "Wow. But, like I said, we all know we're in a dangerous business here. Seems like it kinda comes with the territory."

Roy stared at Johnny. "Comes with the territory? Are you _insane_? Wait'll you hear what the patients were being transported for. No, never mind, don't wait. I'll just sum up for you: over half the patients—the original patients, that is—didn't even have conditions that were time critical! Broken ankles, cuts, other minor traumas where they probably could've taken a cab, for crying out loud, and then they're transported to the hospital with lights and sirens, and people get killed! I don't know what kind of "territory" you signed up for when you took this job, but risking my life to get someone's broken ankle to the hospital one minute sooner doesn't thrill me."

The tones sounded. Roy nearly fell out of his seat, between his heightened emotional state and not being used to the sudden noise.

"STATION 51, MOTOR VEHICLE ACCIDENT WITH INJURIES, 1251 MORELAND. 1-2-5-1 MORELAND, CROSS STREET 51st. TIME OUT: 0817."

"Speaking of crashes," said Johnny. "You waiting here?"

"Yep. Go, go, go!" Roy shooed Johnny out the door. "Jesus," he muttered to himself. "Comes with the _territory_?"

He went to the apparatus bay and watched as the engine and the squad pulled out onto the street, then headed back to the kitchen table. His clean, predictable, boring, blank legal pad was there waiting for him. Roy sighed, picked up the legal pad and his pen, and went to the desk in the dorm to return some phone calls while he waited.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

It was Brice's turn to drive. Johnny sat in the passenger's seat of the squad, as he and his temporary partner sped along behind the engine on the way to the MVA scene. Rush hour traffic was heavy, and moving slowly. They could tell they were almost there, when the traffic backed up, clogging the roadway with vehicles.

Finally, a block from the intersection where dispatch had reported the accident to be, traffic had come to a complete halt. All four driving lanes were packed solidly with vehicles, and, to make things worse, cars had driven into the parking lane to try to get ahead of their neighbors. There was no room for the engine to pass. Mike blew the air horn, but to no avail—they were gridlocked.

"Damn it!" shouted Johnny, thumping the dashboard. "People are idiots!"

"It's worse than that, Johnny," said Brice. He pointed out through the windshield. A puff of black smoke was visible just ahead.

Johnny took one look at the smoke, and made a decision. "See if you can get this mess cleared out to make room. I'm going in." And with that, he leapt out of the squad, opened the rear compartment, grabbed the two dry-chemical fire extinguishers that the squad carried, and started running, a red cylinder tucked under each arm.

"Gage!" shouted Brice. "That is _not_ according to protocol!"

But Johnny was gone. Brice looked to his right, and made eye contact with the driver of the vehicle to his right. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger-side window, and shouted to the driver. "Drive your car over the curb! Right now!"

The driver, a middle-aged man, hesitated. "But my tires—"

"NOW!" shouted the usually calm Brice.

The man obeyed. Brice immediately took the spot in the parking lane, and left the driver's side door open to block the space he'd left open. He ran up the line of parked cars, and found that most of the vehicles were occupied. By morons. He had each of them drive up the curb, and finally, as the spaces they created were filled on Brice's direction with cars in the driving lane in front of Engine 51, a path was created for the engine to break through. Sirens blaring, air horn blasting, Mike took the path that Brice had cleared for him, and drove the engine up to the scene, the squad and its single occupant following.

Mike positioned the engine diagonally across the intersection to protect everyone working on the scene from oncoming traffic, which, unbelievably, had started moving again. Without looking, he could tell that Captain Stanley, sitting next to him in the engine, was craning his neck trying to see what the hell Gage had gotten up to this time.

Cap jumped down from the engine to size up the scene.

It was a mess—a dangerous, unstable mess.

There were two cars he could see right away, both badly crushed. A brown sedan, tipped on its side, was leaking gas from a ruptured line. The hood of a station wagon was partially embedded in the underside of the sedan—the wagon must have hit the sedan after the sedan had flipped. But neither of these two vehicles showed any sign of fire that could have caused the black smoke they'd all seen. Cap walked around behind the roof of the sedan, to see a third car, crumpled into a utility pole. The front of the car was blackened, and was covered with the telltale yellowish powder of a dry-chemical fire extinguisher.

"Chet, get a reel line and wash down the gas. Marco, cut the battery cables, then get traffic the hell away from the scene until LAPD shows up. Mike, hit that hydrant over there; we might need the water if this goes sour." He grabbed his radio. "L.A., Engine 51. Send us a second alarm assignment, with an additional squad, and include a foam unit. And we'll need a total of—" he looked around at the vehicles— "three ambulances."

All the while, Cap's eyes were surveying the scene for other potential hazards—and looking for his impulsive junior paramedic.

"Cap?"

Captain Stanley whirled around to the source of Gage's voice.

"I'm in the brown sedan, Cap. Car at the pole has one code F, that's all. Wagon has one occupant; non-life-threatening injuries. Gotta get this guy outta here—pronto."

Cap flinched as the sedan Gage was in teetered precariously.

"Yourself too, pal. You know how much gas is spewing outta that car you just hopped into? And it's not looking too stable, either. Damn it, Gage, I can't believe you just jumped right in there."

"I know, Cap, but this guy's real bad—I'm controlling the bleeding, but just barely. I need a backboard, and the Jaws, and gotta get Rampart on the line, 'cause this guy needs some serious fluids."

Cap surveyed the scene again. Mike had hooked the engine up to the hydrant, and Chet had a charged line waiting by the cars. Marco was directing traffic away from the scene.

"Mike! Chet! Get some jacks and some blocks, and stabilize the brown sedan. Gage, we can't send you anything until that car is stable." Captain Stanley turned to his radio again. "L.A., Engine 51. Cancel the third ambulance; request additional law enforcement and coroner for a fatality."

Brice had arrived with the squad. He looked to Captain Stanley.

"Brice, double-check the occupant of the wagon, and then help Gage if you can."

Brice nodded, and went to the wagon. The driver was conscious and alert, and struggling to free himself. "Sir, try not to move. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"Legs—squashed to hell, and shit, there's gas! And there's a fire! Can't you smell it? We're gonna burn up—get me outta here!"

"Sir, the gas _isn't_ going to catch on fire. There was a fire at another car, but it's out. The other firemen are hosing the gas down right now—it's not going to catch, okay?"

The driver continued to struggle. "Get me out, please, now! My legs are trapped, oh God, we're gonna burn alive!"

"Sir! We're working on getting you out, right now. We're _not_ gonna catch on fire—I wouldn't be allowed in the car with you if that was going to happen, okay?"

The man panted, hyperventilating, but stopped protesting, and stopped struggling. "Honest?"

"Honest. See that fireman, with the stripe on his helmet?"

The driver nodded.

"He's the captain, and he's in charge. He doesn't send people places where they're expected to burn alive, all right?"

"Okay."

"What's your name?" Brice asked.

"Ted Johnson." The driver paused, and looked down at his legs. "Both my legs hurt—I think maybe the left one is broken, but I'm not sure about the right one."

"Any neck or back pain?" Brice asked.

"No, just the legs," the man said shakily.

"I'm going to reach down into the foot well, and see if I can feel anything, all right?"

"Okay," said the driver.

Brice carefully extended his arm in front of the driver's side of the bench seat. He couldn't reach all the way to the man's feet, but he could tell that the man's lower left leg was indeed broken. He could also just reach under the seat to grasp the bar that released the seat's sliding mechanism.

"Okay, Ted. I think the best way to get you out of here is for me to slide the seat back as far as it goes. It's probably going to hurt, but less than cutting the car apart would."

"Okay. Ready."

Ted closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Brice held onto the dash with one hand, to keep the seat from sliding abruptly, and pulled up on the bar under the seat with the other hand. Ted screamed sharply, once, as the seat slid back and the bones shifted in his legs. Brice looked down into the foot well again, just to make sure that the release of pressure hadn't caused any new bleeding to start. So far, so good.

"All right, Ted, that was the worst of it. I'm gonna check your vitals again and get on the phone to the hospital and see if we can get you something for the pain before I move you any more. It might be a minute, because I need to see how the person in the other car is doing."

Ted just nodded, unable to speak. Brice got out of the car, and went to see how Johnny was faring. He stopped by Captain Stanley. "Captain, the man in the wagon is stable. His left leg is definitely broken, and possibly the right one too, but there's no sign of other injury. I'll go help Johnny—but someone should check in on my guy—Ted's his name—as soon as possible."

"Got it, Brice. Go see what Gage needs."

Brice picked his way around the wreckage to the precariously leaning brown sedan. Stoker and Chet had cribbed and jacked the car so it stopped moving every time Gage shifted his weight, but it still didn't look good.

"Gage?" Brice shouted into the sedan.

"Yeah, Brice. Get on the horn to Rampart, will ya?"

"What've you got?"

"Male, approximately thirty, unconscious, apparent head injury. He's breathing on his own, but he had arterial spurting from a deep laceration on his forearm. I'm controlling the bleeding for now, but the hand is badly mangled—I think his arm went through the window. No pulses distal to the injury. He's pinned pretty good behind the dash, too, so I don't know about lower extremities."

"Got it," said Brice. "The vehicle is stable for now, so let's get the two of you out."

"Chet and I are on it, Johnny," said Mike. "We're gonna have to peel the dash back with the Jaws."

"Crap—I need someone else in here to stabilize his neck while you do that."

"That'll be me," said Mike. "I think I'm the skinniest after you," Mike admitted, squeezing his way in through the hole Johnny had made in the windshield. He twisted awkwardly to fit in the small space between the roof and the passenger compartment of the sedan, to hold the man's head as Chet began to peel the dashboard back with the hydraulic spreaders.

"Shit, Gage—you're not even wearing your coat—where is it?" asked Mike, trying to shield Johnny and the patient from the shards of glass falling from the window above them. Some of the pieces of glass were red with blood.

"Um, still in the squad."

Johnny and Mike were silent for the rest of the time Chet worked on the extrication.

The dashboard made a tremendous cracking sound. Brice and Marco were ready with the backboard, and Johnny and Mike awkwardly slid the man out, with Mike holding the man's head as still as possible. Johnny continued to apply direct pressure to the artery that had been spurting.

Brice took a complete set of vitals, and reported in to Rampart again.

"10-4, 51, establish two large-bore IVs, lactated Ringers, splint the forearm and hand, continue to control bleeding, and transport immediately."

"Copy, Rampart—two large-bore Ringer's IVs, control bleeding, splint the forearm, and transport." Brice paused. "Rampart, I will also be transporting a code I, minor injuries including embedded glass and first- and second-degree burns."

"What?" said Johnny. "Nuh-uh, Brice. I'm fine."

"Look at yourself, Gage. You put out a car fire without turnout gear on. You dove into a car full of broken, bloody glass. You're injured, and you violated at least three protocols to get that way, and Cap's gonna have your hide. But first we're gonna let Brackett at you," Brice said decisively.

"Fine. I'll just ride in with the patient and you can bring in the squad, and—"

"Absolutely not," said Captain Stanley, who had appeared after turning Ted Johnson over to Squad 36. "Chet will take the squad in, and you _will_ go in to Rampart, _as_ a patient, and you _will_ follow Dr. Brackett's instructions. And, if you are able to return to duty today, you will see me in my office as soon as you arrive at the station. Am I clear?"

"Yessir," Johnny mumbled.

Brice established the IVs, and splinted the man's hand and forearm securely, while Johnny continued applying pressure to the severed artery. Brice and Chet loaded the patient up in the ambulance, with Johnny continuing to hold on. Chet closed the rear doors of the ambulance, and banged twice on the doors to signal to the driver that they could depart.

Cap watched them go, shaking his head. "Reckless idiot's gonna get himself killed someday," he muttered, as he went to start clearing up the scene.

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15.

The siren wailed as the ambulance carrying Brice, Gage, and their anonymous patient made its way through LA's rush-hour traffic to Rampart. The rear compartment was crowded, with the patient and two paramedics—one a patient himself, but still compressing the lacerated radial artery of their patient. Hal and Ed were chatting up front, their banter interspersed with Hal's curses and furious words directed towards other drivers.

"Hal, they can't hear you," said Brice, "but the rest of us certainly can. Give us a break, will you? And pay attention to what you're doing."

"Sure thing, Brice," said Hal. "Eyes on the road, and all. I did take the class, ya know," Hal said loudly. "Square," he commented to Ed, less loudly.

"I heard that!" Brice said. "Johnny, you okay with that artery? You've been holding it for a long time."

"Yeah, it's fine; I just swap hands every so often."

The paramedics each reached for a hand-hold as Hal took a corner sharply.

"Gage," said Brice, "I have to tell you, I was not happy about your taking off like that earlier. There are reasons why we're supposed to work as a team—running ahead like that was a clear violation of department protocol for working in pairs in hazardous situations."

"Yeah," said Johnny, "well, it turned out all right, didn't it? And the squad never would've made it to that car fire in time."

"In time for _what_, Gage? The occupant was dead, and the burning car was well away from the other vehicles."

"Did we know that?" Johnny said irritably. "No."

"Regardless," said Brice. "You also neglected your turnout gear, which would have saved you from getting those burns, and probably would've protected you against the glass in the sedan, too."

"Yeah, well that was just a dumb mistake. It's not a big deal, Brice. They're all minor injuries."

"And there's the matter of entering an unstable vehicle—really, Gage, everything you did wrong today could have left us with one less paramedic and one more victim to deal with."

"Man, everyone's on my case! Just lay off, will ya? Cap's gonna rip me a new one later anyhow, so just lay off."

"Fine, Gage. Have it your way. Laying off." Brice adjusted the nasal cannula on their patient, who was starting to move a little. "Looks like he's starting to come around." Brice picked up the biophone, and got back on the line with Rampart.

"Rampart, Squad 51. Our patient is showing some movement, and may be starting to regain consciousness."

"_10-4, 51. Continue monitoring vitals, and_—"

"OH, SHIT!" screamed Hal.

The ambulance's tires screeched against the pavement as Hal slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a car coming off a cross-street. The two attendants, having been sensible enough to wear seat-belts, were unharmed and still in their seats. The two paramedics were thrown forwards into the divider between the front and rear compartments. The patient, strapped firmly to the gurney, was fortunately secure. But, as soon as Johnny's fingers left the patient's radial artery, the wound in the man's forearm started spurting blood again.

"Damn, that was close," said Ed. "You guys okay back there?"

Both paramedics were stunned; Brice answered first. "I'm okay," he said as he reached across the patient and clamped down on the artery. "Gage?"

"Wha... damn, hand me a four-by-four, will ya?" Johnny picked himself up off the floor, and tried not to drip blood from his new scalp wound onto their patient.

"Sorry, Gage, got my hands full here."

"_Squad 51! Brice, Gage, what's your status?_" squawked the biophone.

Johnny picked up the receiver. "Rampart, 51. We're okay—just had a near miss. No change in the patient, except about ten seconds of bleeding from the radial artery, since we got knocked around a bit. ETA two minutes."

"_10-4, 51. You guys okay?_" Brackett asked shakily.

"Uh, probably gonna need a couple stitches in a scalp wound, but my head's pretty thick, so I think there's no serious damage."

"_All right. We'll check you both out just to be safe_."

Johnny bled silently for the next two minutes, since he couldn't reach the bandages without leaning over their patient and bleeding all over him. When the ambulance pulled into its slot at Rampart, Ed and Hal lifted the gurney out while Brice continued to hold the artery. Johnny had never been so glad to get out of an intact vehicle in his life.

Dr. Brackett met them at the door. He glanced at the patient on the gurney. "Dr. Early will see him in Treatment One. Johnny, you come on in to Treatment Three with me; Craig, you join us when Joe releases you."

Brackett took Johnny gently by the arm and steered him to the treatment room. "Sounds like you guys had a close call, there. Any idea what happened?"

"Dunno, Doc. But Hal sure had to lay on the brakes. Anything—and anyone—that wasn't tied down went flying."

"Hpmh," said Brackett, as he gloved up and pressed a large gauze compress to the scalp laceration. "Guess we'll have to add seat-belts in the rear compartment to Roy's list of safety changes, huh?"

Johnny shook his head, and winced. "Nuh-uh, Doc. Ride along sometime—you'll see that'd never be practical—at least not for anyone who needs serious attention. We move around an awful lot back there." He started undoing the buttons on his uniform shirt, knowing Brackett would need it off to inspect the damage from the glass. "Damn, this shirt's toast. Might as well slice the t-shirt off, Doc; it's history too."

Brackett efficiently sliced the front of the white V-neck from hem to collar, and gently peeled it off. Glass tinkled to the floor. "I'll bet Roy'll have something to say about maybe buckling up when the patient doesn't need, as you put it, serious attention."

Johnny sighed. "Crap. Roy. We were just talking when the station got toned out for this wreck. Man, there's gonna be so many people on my case today." He looked up at Brackett. "Do me a favor, Doc. Don't give me a hard time, all right? I mean, I know I blew it with not wearing my coat—burns and glass, I know. I won't pretend that wasn't dumb. So can you just pretend you lectured me on that, and forget it?"

Brackett's lip twitched in the gesture that Johnny recognized as a poorly suppressed smile. "Sure, Johnny. Consider yourself lectured to." He started examining the burns on Johnny's arms. "But you know I can't skip the report, and you know your captain is going to want a call from me."

"I know, I know," Johnny said glumly. "Man, I'm really gonna get it."

"Well, I'll leave that part up to Hank." Brackett took the pressure off the scalp wound briefly, and gently parted Johnny's hair around the wound. "I think you're looking at eight or ten stitches, there, pal." He replaced the gauze pad with a new one. "Can you hold that up there while I take a look at the cuts from the glass?"

"Sure—at least my hands are okay."

"You must've been wearing your gloves, at least. I can see sharp lines where they ended."

"Yeah. The gloves are pretty much a habit—if my hands are hurt, I can't do my job."

Brackett gave him the eyebrow. "You know, Johnny, if you're seriously injured, you can't do your job either. I know I said I'd skip the lecture, but they give you guys those sturdy, heat-resistant coats for a reason."

"I know, I know. I was just, you know, kinda in a hurry."

Brackett inspected the cuts around Johnny's collar line. "These are all minor—I'll just clean them up and bandage them. Let's have a look at those arms. You can let go of that gauze now."

Johnny dropped the four-by-four into the dish next to its much bloodier predecessor, and held his forearms out for Brackett's inspection.

"Gotta admit, Doc, they kinda sting right where the gloves ended."

"You're definitely getting some blistering there. Sorry, Johnny, but between the stitches and the burns, you're off for the rest of the shift. No whining," he finished firmly. "I'll skip the lecture, but in return I want you to skip the protests. Deal?"

"Deal," Johnny grumbled. "Kinda figured, anyhow." He looked up at Dr. Brackett. "Can I at least go back to the station to get chewed out by Cap? I don't want that hanging over my head for the next three days, and neither does he, I'll bet."

Brackett smiled. "Sure, Johnny. As long as somebody else drives you back there. And I don't want you driving home, either." He finished applying a light ointment to the burns, and wrapped the blistered areas in gauze.

"Okay, Doc. I'll bet Roy can take me home."

"Good plan—your place is between the station and Rampart, anyhow, right?"

"Yep. Convenient."

Brackett got out a suture kit. "Okay, pal. Why don't you lie down, so I don't have to stand on a ladder to sew your head up?"

Johnny followed Brackett's instructions. He winced as Brackett injected lidocaine around the laceration. "Man, sometimes I think that stuff stings worse than just getting sewn up would."

Brackett laughed. "Might actually be true for a scalp wound. But I'll tell you, I've had plenty of tough guys refuse the lidocaine. 'Just stitch me up, Doc. I can take it,'" Brackett said in his best tough-guy voice. "But you know what? They're always sorry." He patted Johnny's shoulder. "Let's let that stuff work for a couple minutes."

Brice chose that convenient moment to walk in. "Doctor? You wanted to examine me as well?"

Brackett inspected him briefly. "Hit your head at all?"

"No."

"No neck or back pain?"

"No, I believe I am completely uninjured. As far as I know, all the blood you see is from the patient and from Gage."

"Okay, Craig. You can go clean up. I'll be done with this fellow shortly."

"All right, Dr. Brackett. I assume he will be relieved of duty for the remainder of the day?"

"Correct. Though he can go back to the station."

"Hello!" said Johnny, "I'm lying right here!"

Brice ignored him. "Chet Kelly should be along with the squad shortly. We'll all ride back together."

"Fine," said Brackett. "Oh, and could you please ask Dixie to bring in some scrubs for Johnny? Just a shirt will do."

"Certainly," said Brice, as he left the room.

"All right, Gage. That lidocaine kicking in?"

"Yeah, Doc. It sure is. My head is so numb I think my brain is gonna fall asleep. Let's get this over with," he sighed.

Brackett irrigated the wound, and rinsed as much blood out of Johnny's hair as he could while he was at it. "I don't think the straps inside your helmet should bother this area—could you tell?"

"Think you're right—I think the laceration is right in a spot where nothing touches."

"Good—because the last thing I want to hear is that you weren't wearing your helmet because it was bothering the stitches. If you can't wear your helmet, you're off the job till you can. Got it?"

"Got it," said Johnny. "Well, at least this gash wasn't my fault."

"Okay, hold still, John. This'll only take a few minutes."

~!~!~!~

Ten minutes later, Johnny emerged, wrists swathed in gauze, band-aids peeking out through the collar line of the scrubs, and hair sticking up at all angles around the stitches in his scalp.

"Hey, Dix," he said glumly. "Seen my keepers anywhere?"

"Who, Brice and Kelly? They're in the lounge. Chet just got here with the squad about a minute ago." Dixie looked him up and down. "Well, I'm not gonna say anything smart. Just feel better, okay?"

"Thanks, Dix. Seriously. Between Cap and Roy, I'm really gonna get it back at the station."

She smiled. "I figured, from what Brice was telling me. From his account, you 'violated at least three protocols,'" she said, in her best imitation of Brice's tones.

"Yeah, well," Johnny said. "Can't really argue with him. I've tried—it always comes out badly."

Dixie frowned at him slightly. "I do wish you'd find a way to be more careful, Johnny. You can't not have noticed that you're in here twice as often as any of the other paramedics."

"Aw, Dix!" Johnny complained.

"All right, all right," Dixie said, backing off. "I just don't like to see you getting hurt, is all. Seriously, Johnny. Why always you? Don't answer now, but think about it. Please."

Johnny sighed. "Yeah, all right. I'll probably have to write an essay or somethin' for Cap anyhow."

Dixie laughed. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Last time he chewed me out, I had to write five hundred words on how and why I should wear my helmet. He gave it back and made me do it over, since I never once mentioned using the strap."

Dixie chuckled. "Well, he's got your number, I'd say."

"Yeah." He looked at the lounge entrance. "Guess I'd better let myself get collected and dragged home, huh. See ya later, Dix."

"Bye, Johnny. And seriously—"

"Yeah, I know. I'll take care. Thanks, Dix."

**TBC**

Next chapter: Back to Roy.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16.

"Okay, thanks, Stoney. I'll talk to you later." Roy hung up the phone in the dorm, and looked down at his second completed questionnaire. While the station was empty, he'd contacted two of the other paramedics from Johnny's graduating class all those years ago, and gotten their opinions on the issues he'd been researching.

So far, all the paramedics he'd talked to had agreed in principle with the idea of having different modes of response to and from different kinds of emergencies. But, they all agreed that in practice, it would be difficult to institute changes in how emergency personnel responded to incidents. Stoney had flat out said he didn't think the public would agree with the idea of being taken to the hospital in an ambulance without lights and sirens—everyone always feels like their own emergency is extremely urgent.

Roy had no illusions that the whole how-to-respond conundrum would be "fixed" in the next few weeks. In fact, he was starting to accept that all he was likely to accomplish in this project was to open up a few cans of worms that people had thus far only been peeking into surreptitiously. The one change he did really see starting to happen was the potential for doctors to be able to order paramedics to stop working on a patient. His conversation with Senator Wolski, and their now-scheduled meeting with Brackett, gave him some hope that while the change would take a long time, it was actually possible.

Roy stood up from the desk at the dorm as he heard the sound of the engine backing into the bay. He went out to greet the men.

Marco, Mike, and Cap hopped down from the engine. Mike and Marco started hosing the engine down, and Cap practically stomped through the bay to his office. Roy raised his eyebrows, and headed to the engine, keeping his cast clear of the spray. It wasn't unusual for the squad and Chet to be missing; but it _was_ unusual for Captain Stanley to look so … pissed.

"Uh, what's up with Cap?" Roy asked.

Marco shook his head, and grabbed a squeegee to push some water down the floor to the drain. "Don't think you wanna know, Roy."

_Crap_. "Lemme guess—Johnny did something stupid?"

"Uh, I think 'impulsive' might be a better word, Roy," Mike said. "You know him—he just can't help himself sometimes."

"So who's gonna tell me what happened?" Roy said. "And also, you know I'd help," he said, gesturing to the squeegees, "but can't get the cast wet."

Marco placed himself strategically at the far side of the engine, happy to let Mike do the talking for once.

Mike sighed. "Well, Roy, first off, we got gridlocked on the way to the accident. We could see black smoke pushing from somewhere. And who comes running between the cars, no helmet, no coat, dry-chem can under each arm? Yep—Gage. And when we finally got there, who was inside the most precarious-looking hunk of metal I've seen in a while? Yep—Gage. Covered in bloody glass by the time we got him and the patient out of there. Also cooked his forearms putting out the fire, before that. Just medium-rare, I'd say, but looked like it stung pretty bad."

Roy pondered those images. "Brice'll probably give him a word or two before Cap even gets started."

"Oh, yeah," said Mike. "He'd started with the fancy talk before they even had their patient wrapped up."

The phone rang, and the men in the bay could hear Cap picking up.

"What? Good grief. All right, yeah, send him back here. We'll get him home, after I'm done with him."

Cap strode out of his office.

"What's up, Cap?" asked Roy.

"Well, Roy, I hope you don't mind taking a side trip on your way back to Rampart later. The ambulance that Brice and Gage were in had a near miss—everyone's pretty much okay, but our young friend is coming back with eight stitches in his hard head, and Brackett wants him off the rest of the shift."

"Geez." Roy rubbed his brow. "Well, maybe Johnny'll take me seriously now about the hazards of emergency vehicle operation."

"Can you drop him off?" Cap repeated.

"Sure, Cap." Roy hesitated. "Uh, maybe you need some time with him first, though, right?"

Hank Stanley snorted. "Yeah, well, I was gonna have some harsh words with him, but I think he's had enough for today. Maybe I'll just let it go."

Roy looked askance at Cap. "I dunno, Cap. It might be punishing him more to think he's just gonna get it in a couple of days. Honestly, I think he'll be nervous if you don't give him what for. Plus, it sounds like he has it coming."

Cap nodded. "All right, Roy. We'll do it your way. I'll just give him my usual lecture, and leave it at that." He studied Roy for a moment. "What's _your_ take on why Gage is always winding up hurt? I mean, you do the same job, and you don't end up as a patient half the times he does."

Mike and Marco stopped their squeegeeing. "You know, Roy, I always wondered the same thing," said Mike. "It's not like he's clumsy or anything, and it's not like you don't do your part."

Roy sighed. "I have a theory I've been brewing this morning," he admitted. "But I think I want to talk to Johnny about it. No offense; it's just … awkward."

Cap frowned. "Sure, Roy. In fact, I guess he's all yours for the rest of the afternoon, if you want. No reason he can't still help you out with your research today, and if you can talk any sense into him, well, I'd consider it a favor."

"Not so sure it's about sense, Cap, but I'll at least … test out my theory."

"You're being kind of vague, there, Roy."

"Yeah, well, my theory's kinda vague, too. And so am I." Roy rubbed his forehead, suddenly finding himself far more tired than he'd been just an hour ago.

~!~!~!~

Chet, Brice, and Johnny drove back to the station in complete silence. Chet was concentrating on driving, having heard about the ambulance's near miss. Brice was sitting in the middle, trying to fill out a report form while at the same time trying to keep his elbows out of Chet's and Johnny's ribs. Johnny, of course, was pondering the tongue-lashing he was expecting from Cap, and starting to mentally compose the essay he knew was going to be assigned.

Cap had his special punishments for each of his trouble-makers, custom tailored to hit their vulnerable spots. He knew, for instance, that hard physical work was not a punishment for Johnny, who could never seem to stop moving, but that it worked well on Chet. It had taken Cap a while to notice how Johnny would do almost anything to get out of paperwork, but once he had that figured out, conjuring up some paperwork special for Johnny was a no-brainer for a punishment.

Johnny sighed heavily as the squad backed into the bay.

"Time to face the music," he said, as he climbed out of the squad, completely lacking his usual gusto.

Mike, Marco, Roy and Cap were all standing in the bay, between the engine and Cap's office door. Mike and Marco were leaning on their squeegees. Roy looked like he had a headache. Cap was glaring over in Johnny's direction, but his gaze softened as he saw how stiffly both Johnny and Brice were moving.

"You boys okay?" Cap asked. "Heard you had quite a close call."

"Yes," replied Brice. "Hal—the driver from Mayfair—said someone ran a stop sign. He had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the other car, and Gage and I kept right on going. Fortunately our patient was adequately restrained."

"Fortunately my head is pretty hard," added Johnny, "because it got up close and personal with the wall of the rear compartment." Johnny turned to Roy. "I'm starting to see your point about the hazards of emergency transport, pal. And I haven't forgotten your questionnaire. I just, uh, have some things to sort out with Cap, I guess."

"You guess right, Gage. You know the drill—my office, please."

Johnny and Cap disappeared into the office, and the door clicked closed behind them.

Roy cleared his throat. "Ahem. Uh, Brice, wonder if I could get your opinions on a couple things I've been working on, while Johnny's, uh, in there."

"Certainly. Perhaps we should sit at the table, rather than standing in the bay."

"Sure, Brice."

Roy and Brice retired to the kitchen table, followed by Mike; Chet and Marco were out back taking down hoses from the tower, getting ready to lay them back on the engine. Roy didn't really feel like trying to engage Brice in small talk, and knew that Brice would just as soon skip that anyhow, so he slid a copy of his questionnaire across to Brice.

"You've probably heard from Johnny that I'm working with Dr. Brackett on some ideas for changes to the paramedic regulations."

"Yes, indeed," said Brice, as he scanned the questions. "Very well thought out ideas, here, DeSoto. I must say I'm impressed."

"Uh, thanks, I think. But you probably know as well as anyone that changing the regs will take time—anything I come up with will just be the first steps in getting things moving."

"Do you have a political advocate?" Brice asked. "That seems important."

"I think I do, actually—Michael Wolski, who headed the committee pushing for the original Wedsworth-Townsend act, is coming out next week and is going to meet with me and Brackett. He seems cautiously optimistic that this is a good time to make some changes."

Brice completed reading the questions. "I would like to give you written answers to these questions. May I take this home and return it to you later? That will allow me adequate time to compose my responses."

"Sure, Brice. Anything you want to add to those questions?"

"Simply that today's experience of a 'near miss' reinforces my belief that there should be more training for drivers of emergency vehicles, and more thought put into the safety of individuals in the rear compartments of ambulances."

Mike held up a hand. "Mind if I add something?" he said.

Roy looked up in surprise. "Sure, Mike. Heck, you're a driver of emergency vehicles—I should've thought to ask your input anyhow. What do you have in mind?"

"Well," said Mike, "much though I love Engine 51, I _don't_ love that she's got an open cab. When I drive, I feel—all right, I _am_—responsible for the lives of the men riding with me. And I don't like that they don't even have a roof. If the engine were to roll—and I've heard of that happening—we'd all be history. I say to heck with nostalgia—get rid of the open cabs."

Mike suddenly looked startled, almost as if he hadn't realized he was talking. "And that's about it," he summarized, and looked back into his coffee cup.

"Thanks, Mike. I think that's really sensible."

Brice had another two cents—or possibly more—to add. "DeSoto, the government tracks plane crashes, because they're a matter of public safety. They should also track emergency vehicle crashes, for the same reason."

Roy nodded. "That's at the top of my list of things that relate to my project—whatever my project actually is—but that aren't directly related to the paramedic regulations. I'm still at the point of trying to figure out what agency I should even approach about that. There's just so many," he sighed in frustration.

All three men looked up when they heard footsteps. Chet and Marco came in from the bay.

"Uh, Cap said we should come in here," said Chet.

"What for?" Mike asked.

"Search me," Chet returned. "Somethin' about Gage wantin' to say somethin' to all of us at once. But he ain't here, so I'm stumped."

"I can hear the water running," said Mike. "He's probably in the bathroom."

"How come you're not deaf like the rest of us, Mike?" Chet asked. "I can't hear a damned thing."

"It just stopped, anyhow," replied Mike. "I'll bet he'll turn up shortly."

Right on cue, Johnny trudged into the day room.

"So?" asked Roy.

Johnny let out a long breath. "Yeah. Okay. Um," he hesitated, "sorry, guys."

Chet scrunched up his brow. "Uh, what for?"

"For taking off on my own. Um, for nearly making myself another victim." He cleared his throat. "I, uh, get pretty impulsive sometimes. I guess."

"Geez, Gage. Did Cap make you apologize?" asked Marco. "That's not like him."

"Naw," said Johnny. "He was nice, actually. It was kinda weird. But … I'm just kinda starting to see that if I stick my ass out too far, and get myself in trouble, you guys could end up with another victim on your hands. I guess I'd never really thought of it that way before. So I wanted to apologize. That's all."

The guys all stared at him.

"Nobody's accusing you of freelancing, or going for glory," Mike said. "We all know that's not what you're about."

"No, I know," said Johnny. "I guess I sometimes just try so hard to make things better that I end up making things worse, ya know?"

"You do kinda leap before you look, sometimes," said Chet. "But shoot, man, I don't think any of us are mad at you."

"Except maybe Cap," said Roy. "I guess he gave you what for."

"He was fine. I guess I just kinda realized some things. And I don' wanna talk about it," Johnny said simply.

"Okay," Roy replied. "Listen, why don't I just get you home. We can do my stuff later."

"Yeah." Johnny looked around. "Anyhow, sorry. That's all," he repeated, and turned to go to the locker room.

The men sat silently at the table, not quite believing what they'd just seen. Chet's jaw was frankly gaping. Marco let out a low whistle.

"Wow," said Mike. "If I didn't know Cap better, I'd say something really nasty just happened in that office. He looks like a puppy who just got hit with a rolled up newspaper."

Chet shook his head. "I don't know what happened in there, but Cap would never get mean. You know, I'm ten times as much trouble as Gage, and he dresses me down but good, and I've never come outta there lookin' like that."

"I, for one," said Brice, "believe that Gage has had a good dressing down coming to him for—"

"Shut it, Brice," Roy said sharply. "Just … I don't wanna hear it." He picked up his notebook and papers. "I'll see if I can find out what happened, maybe pick up the pieces. See you guys later."

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17.

Roy closed the door of his sports car, and waited for Johnny to buckle up before he backed out of the parking spot in the back lot of the station. The top was up, because it had looked like rain that morning and Roy didn't want to risk the wrath of Brackett by getting one single raindrop on his cast.

Roy looked over at Johnny. Gage had his head leaned back against the headrest, as if he were searching the roof of the convertible for the answer to some question.

"You all right there, Johnny?"

Johnny reached up and pushed his hands through his non-regulation-length hair, a gesture which Roy had come to know as one of exhaustion and defeat. Johnny winced as his hand passed the fresh stitches. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Just feeling … stupid."

Roy snorted as he turned out of the parking lot onto the road. "Yeah, I'm well acquainted with that feeling these last few weeks."

They drove the short way to Johnny's apartment complex in silence. Roy pulled into a visitor's spot and turned off the engine.

"I hope you realize I'm coming up there with you," he said. "I'm sure you'd prefer to wallow in solitude, but that's not on the menu right now, all right?"

"'kay," said Johnny. "Truth be told, I could use a listening ear right about now anyhow."

They trudged up the steps to the long balcony onto which all the apartments' front doors opened, all the way to Johnny's apartment on the end. Johnny unlocked the door and they went inside.

"Have a seat," said Johnny, throwing his keys on the table in the dining area. "Damn, it's hot in here already," he said, flipping on the AC unit in the living room. "You want some iced tea?"

"Sure, as long as it's not that syrupy stuff you make at the station."

"No such luck, but I'll make up some unsweetened from instant real quick." Johnny quickly mixed up a pitcher of unsweetened instant tea—not Roy's favorite, but it would do in a pinch. And this was a pinch, for sure. He poured the brown liquid over ice, and handed it to Roy, and returned to the living room with his own glass of pre-sweetened tea.

Roy knew that Johnny would not be the one to open the conversation, so he took the lead. "You know, I've definitely been learning the value of a good listening ear lately. And mine are wide open, Johnny."

"Yeah. I, uh, really screwed up today, Roy." Johnny looked at the floor. "I guess you probably heard—I completely took off on Brice. I saw that smoke, man, and I just didn't even _think_ about it. I just grabbed the dry-chem cans, and ran. Totally forgot my coat. I mean, not even a dumb probie would forget his _coat_, for cryin' out loud."

"True," Roy said neutrally, using one of Pritchard's techniques to try to keep Johnny going.

It worked.

"And then, once I got that fire out, and saw the guy in the car was a goner—I dunno, Roy. I guess I just kinda lost it—felt like I had to salvage _something_ from the situation, I think. So I just went to the closest car, that sedan on its side, and looked in the windshield, and saw that guy spraying his blood all over the place, and didn't even look at what a crappy spot I was puttin' myself into. Didn't even freakin' _look_, Roy."

Roy frowned. "Well, it's not the first time you've put yourself in a dangerous spot to take care of someone."

Johnny shook his head. "That's not it at all. Usually I know exactly what I'm doing. But today? I just dove right in."

Roy looked at Johnny intently. "Usually you know exactly what you're doing? What do you mean by that, actually?" Roy's heart was pounding, and he didn't know why.

Johnny sighed heavily, and, with elbows on knees, buried his face in his hands, not looking at Roy, or anything, as he spoke. "I guess it started with Drew Burke."

Roy flashed back to that day, when he and Johnny had been called to the scene where Johnny's police officer friend had just been struck by a careless motorist. One look at him had told the paramedics that Drew was in bad, bad shape, with likely internal bleeding. They were right—his BP had bottomed out in the ambulance on the way in to Rampart, and Brackett hadn't been able to stop the bleeding, and that was it.

Roy had never seen Johnny so cut up before. He'd known Johnny was friends with Drew and his wife, and that he'd spent time with their family on occasion. But being there when Drew died, and helping his wife with the aftermath, had really torn Johnny up. It had taken Johnny a long time—weeks, really—to stop commenting on how hard things were for Pam and her daughter. Roy had tried to tell Johnny on many occasions that he shouldn't feel guilty for Drew's death—there was nothing they could have done differently—but Johnny hadn't been able to let it go until Pam and the little girl moved to San Diego to be near her parents and siblings.

But Roy was darned if he knew what Johnny meant about "it starting" with Drew Burke's death. His heart thumped, even though Roy couldn't figure out why he was so nervous. He asked Johnny, a bit shakily, "_What_ started, Johnny? I don't know what you mean."

Johnny continued to hold his head in his hands, not looking at Roy. "I couldn't let it happen to _them_, too, Roy."

"_Who_, Johnny? Who are you talking about? _What_ are you talking about?"

Johnny finally looked up. "Joanne and the kids, Roy. I couldn't let that happen to them, too. So that's when it started."

The blood drained from Roy's face, as the realization came crashing down on him like a collapsing building. "Jesus Christ, Johnny. All these years, all those times you got injured, and I didn't—it wasn't always chance, was it."

"Sometimes it was," Johnny tried to defend himself. "I mean, it's not like I was _trying_ to get beat up."

"No," said Roy, "but if I'm understanding what you're _not_ saying, you've been taking possibly unnecessary risks to protect me." He shook his head. "And that's just … damn it, Johnny, do you have any idea how guilty that makes me feel?"

Johnny didn't reply.

"And why are you telling me this now? Why now, of all times? I mean, I haven't even been working for the last couple weeks."

"I, uh …" Johnny looked away, picked up his glass of tea, and put it down again without taking a sip. "I guess I kinda didn't realize how bad I'd gotten with this whole thing until you weren't around for a while. Cap said somethin' this mornin' about me havin' a bad habit of doin' crazy shit—I mean, he didn't say it exactly like that. But I kinda realized—at first I'd been trying to protect you, trying to keep Joanne and the kids from, well, you know. But I guess it kinda clicked—that it's just a habit now. I mean, hell, Roy—I wasn't protecting anyone with the crap I pulled today. It was just habit."

"Just _habit_ to _forget_ your gear?"

"No, no!" Johnny said in frustration. "To run and do something, before anyone else can—that's the habit."

They sat silently, the hum of the air conditioner filling the uncomfortable silence.

"You think you're somehow worth less than the rest of us? That if something happens to you, it doesn't matter? You could show a little more respect, you know."

Johnny looked puzzled. "Respect? I don't get it. Respect for what?"

"Not what, Johnny. Who. Whom. Whatever."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"For _yourself_, partner. Yourself." Roy sighed. "You know, Johnny, I've been giving serious thought lately to whether I really even want to keep doing this job, keep working as a paramedic. And today? You just gave me another reason not to, pal. I don't know whether to thank you, or to slug you."

Johnny stared at his feet again. "How 'bout neither one. How 'bout I just try an' shape up so you'll come back to the team."

Roy shook his head. "It's not that simple, Johnny. I don't know if you realize how screwed up I really got myself. I haven't really been up to talking with you about what happened a couple weeks ago—" he held up his cast as a reminder— "but let's just say it was worse than I thought. I'm not just burned out, Johnny—that's part of it, sure—but I'm depressed as hell. Not the "sad" kind, but the kind where you can hardly drag yourself out of bed in the morning, and where nothing seems to matter."

Johnny avoided Roy's eyes, which wasn't difficult, since Roy was also keeping his distance. "I kinda put that together. But not till after, uh, you know." He chugged down some of his tea. "I guess I kinda didn't help, huh."

Roy shook his head. "I don't think anything you did—or didn't do—had a thing to do with any of this, to be honest. But Johnny," he said seriously, "Johnny, look at me."

Johnny reluctantly met Roy's eyes.

"I'm no good as a partner right now. I think I'm making progress—I really do—but I still don't know whether I'm coming back. And I don't know when I _will_ know, either."

"But what would you do, Roy? When your medical leave is up, I mean? You can't just say you feel like you need more time, right?"

Roy sighed. "Pritchard could extend my leave. He has to sign off on my return-to-work papers too. But that's going down a road with the department that I'm not sure I want to travel. The other thing, Johnny, is I could take an engineer's position. I turned it down a couple years back, but the possibility is still there."

Johnny stared at him. "But the reasons why you turned it down last time—they're all still there, right? I mean, wouldn't you miss being a paramedic?"

"Johnny, I don't know if I'm gonna have a _choice_, all right? I'm not wild about being an engineer—heck, Mike and I just had a chat earlier today that made me even _less_ wild about it—but right now, I can tell you I'm not ready to go back to my regular job, and I'm starting to doubt whether three weeks is gonna be enough time to figure it out."

Johnny fidgeted on his couch. "What can I do to help, Roy? I mean, I'll do anything. _Anything_."

Roy sighed. "Thanks, pal. Most of it's on me. But it would be good to know—whether or not I feel like I can come back—that you're gonna watch out for yourself."

"I'll try. But I just don't wanna see Joanne and the kids—"

"Junior, _we_ don't wanna see _you_ dead or hurt because of some hare-brained idea you have that if you take more hits than I do, everything will be dandy. It's not a zero sum game—there doesn't have to be one winner and one loser between the two of us, all right? Okay?"

"I know, Roy, I know. All I can say is, I'll try."

Roy invoked Pritchard again. "You know, one thing Doc Pritchard—who you're gonna get mighty tired of hearing about, but that's too bad, cause he's saving my ass right now—one thing he always reminds me of is that when you have a goal, you have to know how you're gonna realize you've been successful. So how will you _know_ you're trying harder not to take unnecessary risks? How will _I_ know?"

Johnny's brow furrowed as he thought about that question. "I guess," he said slowly, "two things. If I go a month without a scratch, that'd be a first. And I s'pose," he hesitated, "I s'pose I could ask Cap to keep an extra eye on me. He said he'd be watchin' me like a hawk, anyhow, but if I tell him what we talked about, and ask him to really watch for unnecessary risks, that'd be good, I think."

Roy shook his head. "But you know what? Cap's not there on half your calls. I hate to say it, but I think you oughta put Brice on it too."

"Brice—"

Roy interrupted Johnny. "He's analytical, he's observant, and he won't spread it around."

Johnny sighed in defeat. "He's a pain in the ass, too."

Roy smiled. "Yeah, partner; that too."

"But you're right. Hell, Roy; you're always right."

Roy shook his head. "Nope, partner; not always." He held up his cast. "Not always."

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18.

_0755, L.A. County Fire Department Headquarters, outside Room 314._

Roy sat outside Pritchard's office, waiting anxiously for the doctor to appear. It was the first time since his very first appointment that he'd felt any anxiety about meeting with the psychiatrist. Of course, Pritchard would notice Roy's anxiety, and of course, he would want Roy's take on why he was anxious. So Roy put his waiting time to good use, thinking about why he might be nervous.

_It definitely has something to do with Johnny, and our conversation yesterday. Sure, I was upset to find out that he's been protecting me, in his own crazy way, but that shouldn't feel like such a setback. _

_I really thought I was starting to do better, but now I feel like I'm back to square one, and I don't even know why. Guess I'll have to do like Mike said, and start digging. But I don't even know where to put the shovel in. _

Roy looked up as a familiar bearded figure rounded the corner.

"Good morning, Roy," said Dr. Pritchard, "and uh-oh. Come right in; looks like we better not waste any time, here."

Roy shook his head in disbelief. Pritchard could tell in two seconds flat that Roy was not doing well, and was so sure of himself that he could say it aloud. He stood up from the chair outside room 314, and followed Dr. Pritchard into the office.

Roy took his usual seat on a couch.

Dr. Pritchard jumped right in. "So, Roy. Am I right that you're not doing so well this morning?"

Roy nodded. "I don't exactly know why, either, but I know it has something to do with a conversation I had with Johnny yesterday."

Pritchard nodded. "Okay, why don't you tell me about the conversation."

"Yeah. I have to tell you about what happened before our conversation first, or the conversation itself won't make much sense." Roy proceeded to give a run-down of what he'd heard about the MVA incident, including everything that Johnny had done. He talked about the ambulance's near miss, and how after returning to the station, Johnny hadn't been himself. He finished by going over the details of the discussion at Johnny's apartment.

"And Bill, yeah, it was hard for me to hear that Johnny's been trying to take hits for me for the last few years, but to be honest? I think that was only a minor setback. And I really have no idea why I feel like I'm back where I started right now."

Bill Pritchard rubbed his beard and closed his eyes halfway, in a gesture that would make any of his long-term clients think, "uh-oh, here it comes." Roy hadn't been with him quite long enough to recognize that gesture, so he just looked expectantly at Pritchard and waited.

"Roy, tell me more about this Drew Burke fellow you mentioned a few minutes ago—the one whose death Johnny feels like triggered his protectiveness of you."

Roy frowned. "Drew? I didn't know him at all, really—he was Johnny's friend. Why do you ask about him?"

"Just—I think we need to start digging a little, here, and this is a good place to start." Pritchard looked intently at Roy.

Roy looked right back at him. "Okay. Uh, we got a man-down call, right at the start of a shift. It was on the entrance ramp of the freeway. There were two cop cars at the scene, and there was a lady who was all worried about being late for her bridge game, and then the old guy who turned out to be the one who had hit Drew with his car. The lady was the one Drew had pulled over—and then he got hit by the old guy when he got out of his car to talk to her."

"Okay," nodded Pritchard. "Go on. I'm specifically interested in hearing about your partner's reactions during this incident."

"Well, as soon as we saw our patient, Johnny knew who he was. Man, the guy looked really bad—it was apparent right away that he had serious internal injuries. And this was back when all the paramedic units operating out of Rampart were sharing a single radio frequency—this call would've stuck with me even if the victim hadn't been a friend of Johnny's, because it really woke us all up to how bad it could be if all the paramedic units had bad calls at the same time. Anyhow, I guess that's not what you want to hear about."

"Well, I want to hear about anything you think is important."

"Important how?" Roy asked irritably. "I didn't even _know_ the guy, so I don't see why this is relevant." He realized he'd snapped. "Sorry. I'll just keep going." He cleared his throat. "So, we did what we could at the scene—tried to maintain volume as best we could, but both Johnny and I knew that it looked really bad.

"I don't know why I let him, but Johnny rode in to Rampart in the ambulance, and I took the squad in. I shouldn't have let him do that—he was too close, and we were pretty sure we knew which way it was gonna go. Drew was unconscious at that point, so it wasn't even justifiable to say he would benefit from a friendly face. And Drew knew he was going—at least I thought he did—cause right before he passed out he told Johnny that if he didn't make it, he wanted Johnny to tell his wife that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"Once we got to Rampart, we waited outside the ER operating room—Johnny went and called Drew's wife to tell her to come. God, I hate the thought of Joanne getting that call. His wife—I think her name was Pam—came right away, with their little girl, who was maybe three. And it wasn't long after she got there that Brackett came out of the OR, and said, like we'd thought, that there was just too much internal hemorrhaging, and he couldn't stop it." Roy rubbed his brow, and was surprised that his hand came away sweaty.

"Brackett was going to go talk to the wife, but Johnny stopped him, and did it himself. I saw the whole thing—it looked like Pam already knew which way it was gonna go. Joanne would probably be the same way—she'd have an idea which way things were gonna go. Anyhow, it took Johnny a while to be able to leave her be—I think Dixie—she's the head nurse in the ER—finally took her and the little girl to the lounge or something. And then Johnny and I took the squad back to the station, and that was it."

Pritchard looked thoughtful. "That was it?"

Roy looked confused. "Well, that was the end of the run. We did our report when we got back, but that's all."

"No conversations with Johnny about what had happened?"

"Oh, sure," said Roy. "We talked in the squad on the way back to the station, and a lot during the rest of that shift. Then on our next shift, Johnny mentioned he'd spent his days off helping Pam with funeral arrangements and such. That was about it, I guess." Roy felt a bit odd—he looked down and saw his hands were shaking.

"That was about it? I'm curious, do you remember what you talked about in the squad on the way back to the station?"

Roy answered immediately. "Yeah … one thing that stuck out was that Johnny said he'd wished it was me having to talk to Pam instead of him—said he thought he had a weak character or something, because it was such a hard thing to do. He's always talking like that."

"Okay," said Pritchard. "I'm wondering—did Johnny make any comments about how it would be easier if he got killed on the job than if you did? I mean, because you're married and have kids?"

"Yeah, I think that was the next shift, maybe. Something about how he was glad he wasn't married because of that whole thing."

"Hmm. 'That whole thing.' What does that mean?"

Roy shifted in his seat. "Uh, leaving people behind."

Pritchard nodded. "Did he ask you anything about whether you and Joanne had talked about 'that whole thing?'"

"Yeah, he asked."

"What did you say?"

"I think I said, that, uh, maybe Joanne and I talked about it some. But that I, um, preferred just to not think about it."

Pritchard nodded. "Okay. It's not a pleasant thing to think about—the thought of dying in the line of duty, and leaving your family behind."

"No, of _course_ it's not! Jesus, what's the _point_ of this?" Roy was practically shouting.

Pritchard let him calm down for a minute. "Roy, you said 'maybe Joanne and I talked about it some.' What I would like you to tell me about, now, is what kind of plans you and Joanne have made for the possible but unlikely event of your dying in the line of duty. What kinds of conversations have you had about this topic with your wife? I'd like to hear about your living will, if you have one, and whether you've made arrangements for—"

Roy leapt out of his seat, shouting in earnest. "We haven't talked about it AT ALL, OKAY? NOT AT ALL! NEVER ONCE!" He stood there, left fist clenched, right fist trying to clench, chest heaving. He continued to shout. "Are you finally satisfied? I've been married for twelve years, and in a dangerous job for all of them, and every time my wife brings up the topic, I shut it _down_. Is that finally _enough _for you?"

Roy just stood there, fists at his side, sweat dripping from his brow, and watched, as Pritchard walked to the cabinet behind his desk, and got out two glasses. He opened a cube fridge, took out an ice cube tray from the tiny freezer compartment, and filled both glasses with ice. He removed a bottle of orange juice from the fridge, and poured half into each glass. Pritchard set a glass in front of Roy's place on the couch, and put his own on an end table next to his customary chair. He didn't say anything to Roy; didn't ask him anything; didn't tell him to calm down or sit down. He just waited.

Slowly, slowly, Roy's fists unclenched, and his face lost the redness that had come over it. His breathing slowed down. He swiped his sleeve over his face, and abruptly flopped back down onto his seat on the sofa. He picked up the orange juice, and drank it all at once. He set the glass back down, very gently, onto the coaster on the table in front of him.

Roy finally looked over at Pritchard. "God damn it, Bill." He sat up a little straighter. "You _knew_, didn't you? You _knew_ that was going on."

Pritchard shook his head. "No. I suspected, but I didn't know for sure until just now how badly you've been avoiding these issues. Issues about abandonment by death."

"To be blunt," Roy said acerbically.

"Some jobs need a sharp tool; some need a blunt one. This needed a blunt one."

Roy laughed sardonically. "A shovel. He said you'd dig. He wasn't kidding."

"'He?'" Pritchard raised an eyebrow.

"Mike Stoker."

"Ah. He's on your shift, is he?"

"Yeah. Damned smart guy."

"Yes he is." Pritchard paused. "And so are you, Roy."

"Oh, _that's_ a laugh," Roy replied, with no laughter in his tone at all. "The guy who's managed to avoid talking about probably the single most important thing he could talk about with his wife, for _twelve_ years, is _smart_?"

"I said smart, not perfect, Roy."

"Yeah, well, like they say, nobody's perfect. But everybody's human." Roy snorted. "In fact, if I recall correctly, when Johnny said he wished I'd been in his place when he was talking to Drew Burke's wife, and that he thought that was some kind of character flaw, I told him it just showed he's human. So, Roy DeSoto, welcome to humanity, 'cause you're sure as hell not perfect," Roy said aloud. "In fact, Doc, I'm feeling pretty screwed up right now."

"Oh, I don't know, Roy; I think you're a quite a bit less 'screwed up,' to use a technical term, than you were about ten minutes ago."

Roy swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. "Yeah, I guess maybe so." He put down the glass, and looked straight back at Pritchard. "But since I'm apparently smart, I guess I have some more to say."

Pritchard nodded. "Okay. Go ahead."

"So the guy I call 'Dad?' He's not my biological father."

"I didn't know that," said Pritchard.

"Yeah, well, not many people do. It's not like I'm ashamed, or anything—I never knew my biological father. I've got his first name, but that's about it."

"All right. I'm gonna go out on a limb, here, and suggest that maybe there's more that you want to tell me."

"Right again. My 'real' father—Roy Davies—died on Omaha Beach, a week after I was born."

"Ah," said Pritchard.

"Ah, indeed," echoed Roy. "You should see my Dad—Bobby DeSoto, that is—he's a total caricature of a Spaniard. His real name is Roberto. His family came over at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. And me—I'm this pink freckled person. When I was a kid, my hair was so blond it was white. I'll tell ya, I'll bet Mom and Dad got plenty of speculative looks walking around with me."

"So, your mother remarried."

"Yeah, when I was two. She'd been working for this accountant as a secretary, and the guy across the hall, a young lawyer, doing really well, getting lots of business because he was a native speaker of Spanish—well, he's my dad." Roy paused. "Like I said, I never knew another father. So I guess it's pretty dumb that I have this hangup, huh?"

"Not dumb, Roy. Human. Even though you never met your father, his death was a formative experience in your life, and it would be surprising if there weren't some echoes of that experience in your adult life."

"Oh, so this whole thing is an echo. I guess that's a good a word as any," said Roy. He swirled the ice some more. "So, I uh, I don't _think_ I have any huge Daddy issues. Actually, I'm not really even sure what people mean by that. But yeah, I think knowing what happened with my own father, and how hard that was for my mom, well … that's kind of stuck with me."

"Would you say your mother and you did okay?"

"Sure. Sure she did, after a while. But I think in a lotta ways, it would have been easier for her than it would be for Joanne and the kids if I were to, you know."

Pritchard clasped his hands in front of him. "I'd like you to say it, Roy."

Roy took a deep breath. "Yeah, I thought you'd tell me that. If I were to get killed on the job. If I were to die," he added, to make his utterance complete.

"Good. Yes, I think you're right—lots of women were widowed during that time, and, well, times were different. Families lived nearer each other, for one thing," Pritchard said. "Does your family live nearby?"

Roy nodded. "They do. My mother, in particular, wasn't too happy about my career choice—imagine that. But yeah, they live about two hours from L.A. now."

"What about Joanne's family?" asked Pritchard. "If I recall correctly, you don't get on so well with your mother in law."

"No, I sure don't," Roy said firmly. "But, when push comes to shove? I'd be glad to know she was there if anything happened. She's great with the kids, and she and Joanne get along fine—as long as I'm not there."

Pritchard nodded. "Good. So, that's one thing your family has going for them—now, and if something ever happened."

"Yeah, I guess it is," said Roy.

Pritchard decided it was time for some silence to work its magic. He drank his orange juice, slowly, not asking Roy anything, not talking at all. Bingo.

"So, uh, I don't even know what to do next, Bill," Roy blurted.

"I think you do," said Pritchard. He finished his juice, and set the glass down on its coaster. He looked at Roy.

"Yeah, I do," Roy admitted. "I have a conversation I need to have with my wife. One that I've been putting off for twelve years."

"That's right." Pritchard looked Roy in the eye. "Can you do it on your own, or should we have Joanne come in tomorrow?"

Roy looked at the floor. "To be honest, now that I'm getting this ball rolling, I don't really want to wait until tomorrow. But I'm afraid," he said, looking up at Pritchard, "I'm deathly afraid that I won't be able to go through with it. It'd be so easy to just skip the whole thing."

Pritchard held up a finger. "Hold that thought," he said, walking over to his desk. He looked at his appointment book. "Do you think Joanne could find someplace to stash the kids after school today? I have a three-thirty slot wide open." He looked back at Roy. "I'm not implying that I think you can't do this on your own. Not at all. So feel free to say 'no' to this offer. But it seems from what you're saying like it might be a good idea to have this conversation on neutral ground, today, with me here if you need me. It might also help that I know exactly what kinds of things need to be ironed out, logistically. But what I really want to have happen, whether I help or not, is for you and Joanne to have an honest conversation that hasn't happened yet."

"Yeah," Roy said slowly. "Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. And I'm sure she could drop the kids off next door."

Pritchard was still at his desk. He pushed the phone across to Roy. "Why don't you call her, right now. You don't need to go into details on the phone—just tell her that everything's okay, but that you really need her to come this afternoon."

Roy nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll do that."

"Dial '9' for an outside line," said Pritchard.

Roy dialed, and waited. The phone rang, three, four times, and then Joanne picked up, sounding slightly breathless.

"Honey? It's me," said Roy.

"_Hi! I just got in from dropping the kids off—almost didn't make it to the phone. Aren't you supposed to be at your appointment?_"

"I _am_ at my appointment. Listen—everything's fine—really good, actually."

"_But_?"

"But, there are some things I really want to talk with you about, and, well, Dr. Pritchard might be able to, um, make it easier. So I'm wondering if you could come to his office at 3:30, today."

There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. For a second, Roy was afraid she was going to flat out refuse him.

"_Sure_," said Joanne. "_I can do that. Three thirty?_"

"Yeah. You remember where? 314, at HQ."

"_Yep. I'll be there_."

"Thanks, Joanne. I love you, babe."

"_Me too. I hope—well, I hope the rest of your day is better._"

"It will be. I really think it will be."

And with that, they hung up. Roy pushed the phone back across the desk. "She'll be here," he said.

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19.

Roy went through the motions of doing work in his office that day. He didn't get much done—his mind was on his session with Pritchard that morning, and the joint session with Joanne that was coming later. Around noon, he started to realize he really was getting nothing done at all, and started to think about how he could legitimately get out of Rampart for the rest of the day. He didn't have any meetings or interviews scheduled with any of the paramedics, and was as prepared as he could be for the meeting with Senator Wolski, which they'd scheduled for the following Wednesday.

He looked over his list of people in the department he'd wanted to touch base with. He'd had either in-person or phone interviews with all the paramedics with four or more years of experience, with one exception. Johnny. He'd planned to call him anyhow, to see how he was feeling, even though he knew he'd get the same answer no matter how Johnny was actually feeling— "Fine, Roy, just fine." Plus, he owed Johnny a follow-up to their last conversation. And it wouldn't hurt to talk with Johnny about what he was going to talk with Joanne about later.

"Huh," Roy said to himself, as he wondered just when it was that he'd started viewing Johnny as somebody he could talk with about tough things. "Go figure."

Roy didn't really know whether Johnny would be home on a day off, but there was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and dialed.

The phone rang only once before Johnny picked up.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, partner. Just me. Hope I'm not clogging up the line while you're waiting for some girl to call," Roy teased. He could practically hear Johnny's eyes rolling over the slightly staticky connection.

"_No, Roy, no girls. Geez. What's up?_"

"Oh, just checking in to see how you're feeling after your crack on the head yesterday."

"_Fine, Roy, just fine. It's annoying as hell to have stitches in your scalp, though. I know you're not s'posed to get them wet, but I had to wash the blood out of my hair, right?_"

"Yeah, that's pretty much necessary. And how are those burns on your wrists?"

"_Oh, not too bad. A couple of blisters, but no worse than a bad sunburn." Johnny paused. "So what's up with you?_"

"Well," Roy hesitated, "I was kind of wondering if you might be free for lunch today. I wanted to, uh, run something past you." He decided that sounded less touchy-feely than 'I wanted to talk to you about something personal.'

"_Sure! Truth be told, though I was kinda planning on staying in, today, though—I look pretty terrible. But if you wanted to meet somewhere I could probably pull myself together._"

"How about if I just grab some sandwiches and bring 'em over to your place?" Roy interrupted.

"_That sounds good. Soon?_"

"Yeah—I'll just stop by that deli around the corner from your place. You want your usual?"

"_Great—and can you grab some pickles, too?_"

"Sure thing—I'll be there shortly."

"_Super. Oh, and don't get any dessert or anything—I've got plenty of ice cream—we'll need it, for a hot day like this._"

Roy laughed. " Pickles and ice cream? Anything you want to tell me about, Junior?"

"_Har-dee har har. See you in a bit._"

"And Johnny? Just so you know, I'm only bringing you lunch because I have to get the heck out of here, and your car is still at the station."

~!~!~!~

Twenty minutes later, Roy was at Johnny's door, clutching the bag of sandwiches, pickles, and sodas in his bad hand while knocking with with his left.

The door opened right away. "Hey, Pal, come on in."

Johnny looked worlds better than he had the previous day. Both wrists were still loosely bandaged with gauze, but the scalp wound was invisible, and it helped that his hair wasn't matted with blood.

Roy set the bag down on the kitchen counter, as Johnny squeezed past him in the narrow kitchen to grab plates from a cupboard.

"All right, Roy," said Johnny, between bites. "You've got me dying of curiosity about what you wanted to run past me. I know I still owe you a questionnaire, but I don't think that's it." He took a huge bite of his sandwich, and left the ball in Roy's court.

Roy sighed. He hadn't made much progress with his own lunch, but he hadn't figured that he would. "You got that right." He forced himself to take a bite, and chewed and swallowed it while he tried to think of how to tell Johnny about what was on his mind without sounding like a total nut case.

"Remember when Drew Burke died, you were asking me about whether Joanne and I had talked about that sort of thing at all?"

Johnny nodded. He pocketed his bite of food in his cheek, chipmunk-style, so he could talk with his mouth full without everything falling out. "Yeah, you said something about how you just preferred not to think about it, if I remember right. Don't blame you."

Roy sighed, and pushed an innocent potato chip around his paper plate. "I think I also said Joanne and I had talked about it some. The truth is, though—we haven't."

Johnny swallowed his bite of food hurriedly. "You mean, you haven't made all the detailed arrangements in advance, or something?"

"No," Roy said flatly, "I mean we haven't ever discussed the 'what-ifs' of my working in a dangerous job."

Johnny put his sandwich down, and gave Roy his full attention. "Not at _all_?"

"Nope. Never."

"Wow. I mean, I'm sure it's a sensitive topic for Joanne and all, but she has to see reason, Roy. It's not likely that anything would happen, but it is _possible_, and she needs to let you—"

"Johnny," Roy interrupted, "it's not her. It's me."

Johnny's full attention turned into a frank open-mouthed stare. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just kept his mouth open.

Roy continued. "Every time she brought it up, I would just shut the conversation down. She eventually stopped trying."

Johnny continued to stare. "Geez, Roy."

"And Pritchard got it out of me today. Joanne and I are going to see him together this afternoon. She's coming, but she doesn't know what it's about."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow. And I guess it's pretty obvious that this whole thing is part of what was eating at me so bad these last few months."

"That close call you had a year ago or so prob'ly didn't help, did it?"

"Funny you should mention that—I was just thinking about that myself. I was thinking about how you've been trying to, I dunno, keep me safe for Joanne and the kids, so I was trying to think of all the times I ever got injured. That was the only one that put me in the hospital, even though it was just a night for observation. But yeah, I think maybe that got me started on this whole thing."

Johnny didn't say anything for a moment, and, uncharacteristically, ignored his food as well. "Roy," he said finally, "I wasn't there for that one, you know."

"I was afraid you'd think of that. You were laid up after getting hit by that drunk, right? When you ruptured your spleen and cracked your fibula, if I recall."

"Yeah. That was pretty memorable. Well, at least the parts I _remember_ were memorable. And, I remember watching the incident on TV, in the hospital. Man, I wished I'd been there for you guys."

"Don't start getting superstitious, all right? Just because you weren't there doesn't mean that's why I got in trouble. If you'd been there, that collapsed wall just would've cut you off too."

"Yeah, I know—at least my brain knows. But it's still hard not to think about it."

Roy sighed. "Look, Johnny. I was serious when I said before that I want you to quit trying to take hits for me, all right? 'Cause when I come back, if I think you're endangering yourself to try to protect me, that's it—we're done."

Johnny sat up. "Roy, did you hear what you just said?"

"What," Roy asked, "that we're done if I think you're—"

"No, not that," said Johnny. "You said 'when I come back!' I don't think you'd said that before!"

"Huh," said Roy. "So I did."

They finished their sandwiches.

Johnny made the first move to bring them back to their original topic. "So, uh, what're you gonna do this afternoon? I mean, do you have a plan for what to talk about with Joanne?"

Roy shook his head. "I don't really want to try to plan it out—conversations never work that way. I sure have to apologize to her, for one thing, for all the times I just changed the subject, or got irritated, or put her off in other ways when she brought up that topic." He snorted. "Listen to me—I can't even say it—I keep saying stuff like 'that whole thing' or 'that topic.'"

"Yeah, well, as long as you break the ice with Joanne this afternoon, who cares about that?"

Roy frowned. "I don't know; I think not even being able to say 'what would happen if I died and left Joanne and the kids behind' is kind of a problem."

"There, you said it."

"Yeah, but it was all in quotes, in my head, you know?"

Johnny crossed his arms, sat back, and looked at Roy. "Okay, so pretend I'm Joanne. Say it to me."

"Aw, man! Gross," Roy said immediately. "No way."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "You know that's not what I mean. Seriously, what would you say to her?"

Roy eyed Johnny suspiciously. "All right. No joking around, though."

"No joking."

Roy looked away from Johnny. "Man, this is weird," he muttered. "But here's what I would say." He cleared his throat, and, with his back turned to Johnny, continued. "Joanne, every time you've ever tried to talk about what would happen to you and the kids if something happened to me at work, I've avoided discussing it. That wasn't fair, and I'm really sorry."

"Good," said Johnny. "That seems perfect. You didn't actually say 'died,' but I think that's all right. You'll have to tell me what Joanne would say next, though."

Roy shook his head. "I don't actually know. She might be thrilled I'm ready to talk about it, or she could be mad as hell. Most likely, with Pritchard sitting there, she'll be completely neutral."

"Neutral, huh?"

"Yeah," said Roy. "Sometimes that's scarier than mad, the way she does it."

Johnny just sat there.

"Lemme guess," Roy said wryly. "You don't know how to do neutral."

Johnny squirmed uncomfortably. "Pretty much not," he admitted. "I guess maybe this role-play thing was a little silly."

"Well, it _was_ kind of a girly idea," Roy said, ducking as Johnny threw a wadded up sandwich wrapper at him. "But, actually, you got me to actually say the words I hadn't said before, so that's worth something. A lot, actually."

Johnny grabbed a pickle from its container, and took a bite. "Good," he said. "And," he added, pointing at Roy with the pickle, "don't go chickening out when the time comes."

"Well, that's why I took Pritchard up on the offer to have the conversation at his office. He won't let me sabotage myself." He held up his cast. "Again."

"Hey," said Johnny, "when does that thing come off, anyhow?"

"Another week," said Roy. "And not a second too soon. Heck, you've had casts before—you know how itchy they get."

"Yup," said Johnny, starting on another pickle. "Especially in this kind of weather. And smelly, too."

"Thanks for the reminder," said Roy. "Speaking of which, I think maybe I'll skip the pickles," he added. "Really garlicky today."

"You know where the ice cream is if you wanna start in on it," said Johnny.

"Maybe I will," said Roy, opening the freezer. He stared at the spectacle before him. "Uh, Johnny? Why do you have _six_ half-gallons of ice cream in here?"

"Because I like it," said Johnny, "and Brackett's always on my case to gain weight, and everyone always complains how ice cream is fattening, so there ya have it."

Roy hauled out a container of mint chocolate chip. "What kind you want?" he asked Johnny.

"Oh, whatever. Lots, though, as long as you're dishing up."

Roy rifled the utensil drawer for a scooper. He wedged the ice cream carton between his hip and his right forearm, and scooped with his left hand, dishing out a modest portion for himself and a gargantuan helping for Johnny.

"You know, Gage," Roy commented as he put the carton away, "most people would kill to have your weight problem."

Johnny scowled. "Yeah, well, most of the time it's not a big deal, but it does get kinda old to hafta get on the scale for Brackett every other week, or whenever he feels like it. I mean, it seems like it's actually an advantage for a rescue guy to be on the low side of the weight requirements."

"You're probably right, Johnny, but Brackett's got a point—you get hurt and sick enough that you have to have some insurance." Roy cleared his throat. "Speaking of which. I want to know that you're serious about talking to Cap and Brice about helping you stay out of trouble."

Johnny sighed. "Yeah, I'm serious. I've been thinking this morning, a lot, about what you and I talked about yesterday. I guess sometimes I try to protect you, but other times? Like yesterday, when you weren't there? I think I have a habit of trying to prove I'm good enough."

Roy frowned. "What do you mean, good enough? You're probably the best rescue guy in the department."

"Ya gotta understand, Roy—when I was growing up, there was nothing I was good at that really counted. I was decent at a lot of things, but when you're like me, you have to be more than decent for people to think you're even adequate."

Roy shook his head. "I'm not following, partner. What do you mean, 'like you?'"

"Look. It's no secret I'm part Native American, right? But the thing is, when you're half and half, you're not _all_ anything. So you don't really belong anywhere. And when you're an outsider, you have to work twice as hard—be twice as good—for people to think you're doin' a good job at whatever it is."

"Huh," Roy said thoughtfully. "I guess I never thought about that."

"Well, you wouldn't," said Johnny, without malice. "First off, you're a white guy, and—no offense—but white guys in this country have this idea that if you work hard enough, no matter who you are, or where you came from, you can make it. And that just ain't true. And second of all, you take people for who they are, what they can do, regardless of what they look like or sound like. I think I only know—" Johnny got a distant look on his face as he mentally counted— "four people who I don't think ever judge people based on appearance."

Roy listened with interest. "Okay, now you've got me curious. Who are your four people?"

"Joe Early, Dixie, you, and Stoker."

"I can see that, for sure," said Roy. "But what about Cap?"

"He's better, now, for sure," Johnny said. "But when he first came to 51s? Man, he knew from my personnel file how old I was, but he started out treating me like a kid. Just 'cause I don't get a five-o'clock shadow by noon don't mean I'm not an adult. But yeah, he's way better now."

Roy finished his ice cream, and set the spoon in the bowl. "You know, you act more like an adult now, too."

"Um, thanks, I think?" Johnny said. "But I've been trying." He hesitated. "You know, I get beat up a lot, and I'm coming up on thirty, and ten years in the department."

"Uh huh?" said Roy, wondering where this was going.

"I've been thinking, of, you know. Maybe, um, taking the Captain's exam next time it comes around." Johnny looked up cautiously to see the expression on Roy's face.

Roy looked, well, relieved. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Glad?" Johnny probed.

"Yeah, I'm real glad. Because, you see, I've been thinking the same thing. It would be a way to stay in the business, but a little bit out of the line of fire—for the family, you know."

Johnny sensed there was more. "But?" he asked.

"But," Roy said, "I didn't want to bust up our partnership."

"Yeah, we're pretty damned good, aren't we?"

"We sure are, Johnny. We sure are." Roy looked up. "So I'm glad I wasn't the first to mention the Captain thing. And, you know what? You were right, when you noticed before that I said 'when I come back.' I will. I'm sure of it, now. I wasn't sure two days ago, or yesterday, but today? I'm sure."

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20.

Roy sat on a bench at the end of the third-floor hallway at department headquarters, fidgeting in a manner worthy of his partner, waiting for Joanne to appear. He was fifteen minutes early—it just wasn't working to try to get anything done at his office, so he'd headed over to HQ to sit and wait. He saw Dr. Pritchard's door open, and looked away as the previous client exited. Nobody coming out of that office really wanted anyone looking at them, Roy had learned, so the unspoken rule was that if you were waiting to go in, you made darned sure you didn't make eye contact with whoever was coming out.

Pritchard, however, peered down the hallway and saw Roy. "Why don't you come in, Roy; we can chat for a minute before your wife comes."

Roy nodded gratefully, and entered the office.

"Give me just a second to make a note or two," said Dr. Pritchard, as he scribbled something in a folder and then replaced the chart in his desk drawer. He closed the drawer, and then took his spot across from Roy in the living-room-like office.

"You're a bit early," remarked Pritchard.

"Couldn't get anything done," Roy admitted. "I'm pretty nervous about this conversation, Bill."

"That's not surprising," Bill commented. "But, consider this: nervousness is a feeling—you are having a feeling. And I suspect you've been having more and more. Am I right?"

"Yeah," Roy said. "Actually, today when I was talking to Johnny—" Roy cut himself off, and restarted. "I should back up. I couldn't get anything done, so I went over to his place and we actually talked quite a bit."

"That's good. That's really good—I didn't have the impression that the two of you often talked about serious things."

Roy frowned. "Oh, I don't know. He's always telling me about his dating problems, including serious ones. And last time he really got busted up on the job, about a year ago, he had a real hard time when he came back, and we talked a lot about that. And there was another time, longer ago, when it was almost like he was a veteran coming back home shell shocked. So yeah, we talk about tough stuff."

"_His _tough stuff," Pritchard corrected.

Roy looked up, and raised his eyebrows. "Huh. Yeah, I guess it _is_ always his stuff." He thought for a moment. "Funny—I always thought _he_ was the one that had a hard time talking about things, but … well, now I don't know. Huh," he repeated.

Dr. Pritchard let Roy ruminate for a minute or so. "You've done an excellent job being honest and open with me. Sometimes it's easier for people to be open with someone who's totally neutral, and who they don't deal with in their normal lives."

"Yeah," said Roy, "I guess I'm starting to figure that out."

Pritchard looked up at the clock on the wall. "I'll go see if Joanne is out there." He walked to his office door, and opened it. Joanne followed him back in.

Roy stood up to greet her. "Hi," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Thanks for coming."

"I have to say, Roy; I've been pretty much quaking with suspense all day long. Whatever it is, I guess I'm as ready for it as I can be, so let's get straight to the point, if you fellows don't mind."

Roy looked at Joanne closely. Her lower lip was trembling, her hands were clutching her pocketbook so tightly her knuckles were white, and she looked as if she'd been crying earlier. He suddenly felt like his stomach dropped down to the first floor, without the benefit of an elevator to slow it down.

"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. It's nothing terrible—I didn't mean to—"

Joanne collapsed onto his shoulder, sobbing.

"Shh," he said into her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry—I didn't mean to worry you—I just have to tell you some things that I should've told you a long time ago, and …"

Roy stopped talking and just held Joanne and stroked her hair while she cried. After a few minutes, she swiped her hand across her face, and Roy passed her the box of tissues that Dr. Pritchard had just pushed across the table.

Joanne blew her nose and wiped her eyes. "Sorry," she said.

Roy shook his head. "My fault, all my fault. I should've said, I should've told you it was nothing bad. I'm really sorry—I wasn't thinking about how what I said this morning would affect you."

She looked him in the eye. "So, it's nothing bad, but we have to talk about it here?" said Joanne, almost angrily.

"Yeah, we do, because I don't think I would actually do it otherwise," said Roy. "Look. I'm gonna get straight to the point."

"Please do," Joanne said flatly. "I'm all ears."

Roy took a deep breath. He looked at Pritchard, who looked back neutrally. "You can do it, Roy. I'll start for you if you need me too, but I think you can do it."

"All right." Roy found himself pretending he was talking to Johnny, in a reversal of his earlier run-through of this conversation. "So here it is. We've been married twelve years, and I've been in a dangerous job the whole time, and every time you ever tried to talk about what would happen if something bad—really bad—happened to me on the job, I've chickened out. That was selfish and unfair of me, and I'm sorry. I'm ready to talk about it now."

Roy watched as Joanne's bloodshot eyes grew wider and wider. As he finished his opening lines, her jaw opened slightly.

"Whoa," she said. "O … kay. That's not what I expected at all." A small, nervous titter escaped her lips. "Wow."

"Yeah," Roy echoed. "Wow."

"I want to know what brought this on so suddenly, but not now. Now, the door is open, so let's go in. Keep going," she said to Roy.

"Um, okay," Roy said shakily. "I, uh, guess I should write an actual will. That would be a good idea, right?" He looked back and forth from Joanne to Pritchard.

"It's a start, Roy. A start," Joanne said dryly. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound facetious, but … well, go on."

"And I should make sure you and the kids are provided for if I, um, if I'm not around."

"Dead," Joanne said flatly. "If the job kills you. Say it."

Roy really didn't want to, but he had no choice. "I should make sure you and the kids are provided for if I get killed on the job."

Pritchard nodded, ever so slightly.

"You know it's pretty unlikely, Joanne, right?" Roy asked suddenly. "I mean, yeah, it's a dangerous job all right, but I'm really cautious, and Captain Stanley is extremely conscientious about what he—"

"Roy, don't backpedal, all right?" said Joanne. "It's true that it's unlikely, but I think you're getting off track. Right?"

"Yeah," Roy said sheepishly. "Okay. It's unlikely, but it could happen, and _that's_ what we need to talk about."

"Exactly," said Joanne. "And if it happens on the job, it would happen fast. You'd be at work, and I'd be in the kitchen, and someone from the department would show up at the door. Or Hank Stanley would call me in the middle of the night. Or Johnny would call, and he wouldn't start with 'Roy's fine,' like he does by habit every single time he calls our house and I pick up." She paused. "I _know_ it could happen, Roy. Every fireman's wife, every policeman's wife—we've all thought about it a million times. If the phone rings when you're at work, I always sit down before I answer, just in case."

Roy found he didn't have anything to say. His heart started to race, and his mouth felt dry. He looked at Joanne, and looked at Dr. Pritchard.

Pritchard sensed this was the time for him to step in. "Roy, why do you think it's been so hard for you to talk about this subject with Joanne? It seems that it must have been the elephant in the living room for quite a while, now."

Roy nodded. "Yeah. Well, I guess I've just been afraid. Not for myself, but for you and the kids. And I guess since I never talked about it with you, everything I imagined just got worse and worse—out of control." He took another deep breath. "But I'm ready. I'm ready to talk about it, to make plans, to—I don't know, to do whatever you want, Joanne."

She snorted lightly. "Well, I hate to tell you this, but I haven't left you with a lot of plans to make, Mr. DeSoto."

He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

Joanne shook her head. "Do you think that just because you wouldn't talk about the topic of your possible death on the job that I just pretended it would never happen? That I didn't feel like I needed to do any advance planning?"

"Uh," Roy fumbled, "I guess I never thought about it."

"Well, I did," Joanne said firmly. "Look. When we got married, and we set up our joint account, you maybe didn't even notice this, but the manager asked us a bunch of questions about how we wanted it set up—whether we wanted it to be possible for either of us, independently, to be able to access the entire sum of the account—and I made sure it was possible. Actually, another manager called me later, and asked if I really understood the setup. Because, you see—and he described this so delicately I thought I would explode with laughter—if you were to run off with another woman, you could drain the account and I couldn't do anything about it."

"Oh," said Roy. "Uh, yeah, they called me about the same thing, too."

"Well," said Joanne, "I explained what your line of work was, and they understood immediately, and said the way we'd set it up was completely reasonable in that case."

"Uh, I guess I just said I trusted you." Roy paused. "And I guess we should make sure the house is in both our names, the same way."

Joanne laughed. "Once again, that's all set. I mean, really, Roy—even before we bought the house, I was handling all the household finances. So when we applied for the mortgage—remember?—I filled out all the paperwork, and you just signed where I told you to. I'll tell you, you're so oblivious to all the financial stuff, if I'd wanted to leave you high and dry it would've been easy. Not that I would," she said hastily, "but anyhow."

Roy stared at her. "Okay. What else should I know?"

"Let's see," Joanne said. "Oh—my teaching certificate. I know we agreed that I wouldn't go back to work until the kids were out of elementary school, but I've made sure to keep it current."

"Wow, that's a good idea." Roy looked down at the floor. "I guess you're about ten steps ahead of me here."

"Damn straight, DeSoto."

"I, uh, I guess I didn't give you a lot of choice about getting ahead of me on this one."

"No," Joanne said calmly. "You didn't."

Nobody said anything for a moment.

"Roy," said Joanne, "why now? You've avoided this topic, been afraid to talk about it, for twelve years. So why now? Dr. Pritchard, did you put him up to this?"

Pritchard shook his head. "No, this is all coming from your husband. Why don't you explain, Roy."

Joanne looked at him expectantly.

"Well, yesterday after the kids went to bed, and you asked me why I seemed upset—and I told you about what happened with Johnny on that MVA call? I guess I kind of, um, left some things out. I mean, I told you what happened on the call, and how he got read out by Cap. But I didn't tell you about what he and I discussed. I didn't tell you about what it turns out he's been doing for the last few years."

Joanne looked confused. "What he's been doing the last few years? No, you didn't mention that. What _has_ he been doing the last few years? Not that there's much I would put past him."

"It turns out," Roy said heavily, "that ever since Drew Burke died, Johnny's been sticking his neck out in a hurry on calls, so that he gets the more dangerous jobs. To protect me. No," he amended, "to protect you and the kids, from what happened to Pam Burke and her daughter."

"Idiot boy," Joanne muttered under her breath. "Yeah, Roy, I can totally see him doing that. I'm going to have to have a word with him, aren't I?"

"And I swear, Joanne, I had no idea. I mean, he's always been, well, impulsive. But I just didn't realize that he was taking the dangerous duties before I could, on purpose. I'm just glad he never got seriously hurt because of that."

"But one thing, Roy—what does that have to do with yesterday?" Joanne asked. "I mean, you said he was in trouble for haring off on his own, without a partner, and for forgetting his coat. But you weren't there—there was no Roy DeSoto to protect on that call, and I seriously doubt he'd be sticking his neck out for Craig Brice that way."

"That's how this all came up—I asked him the same thing. He said it's just become a habit. Not forgetting his coat—that was just a dumb mistake—but leaping into the dangerous stuff is apparently a habit for him now."

Joanne scowled. "Well, he'd better break that habit, and right now."

Roy nodded. "I told him that—I even said if I didn't have some strong reasons to believe he was gonna think harder about sticking his neck out, that when I came back, I wouldn't work with him."

"Yeah, that'd do it," said Joanne. "Did he believe you?"

"Yep. He said he'd ask Cap to keep an extra eye on him. And Brice, too."

Joanne laughed out loud. "Oh, I would love to be a fly on the wall for that discussion!" And then she stopped laughing. "Roy, did you notice what you said a second ago?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "I said, 'when I come back.' And I meant it." He looked at Pritchard. "Bill, I want to go back. I want to be able to go back to my job when the cast comes off."

Pritchard nodded slowly. "I think you'll be ready. There are some things you still need to work on, but I think that by the time you have your medical clearance to return to active duty, there's a good chance I'll be ready to sign off on your return-to-work paperwork as well."

Roy looked at him nervously. "Um, what things do you think we—I—still need to work on?"

"What do you think?" asked Pritchard. "I think you probably know."

Roy thought for a moment. "Well, I didn't realize it until this afternoon, but I never bring up anything serious, even with Johnny. We talk about serious things, but if it's personal? It's only ever him that brings up personal things. So I think I have to get better at talking with my close friends about personal things." He looked up at Pritchard, and then back to Joanne. "Which isn't easy. I mean, I work with firemen—we're not known for our introspection, and we don't exactly go around hugging each other and talking about feeeeeeeeelings." He wiggled his fingers in front of him as he stretched out the word.

Joanne rolled her eyes. "Well, you _could_ start with _me_, you know. You're always perfectly happy to talk with me about what's going on inside _my_ head, so let's try turning the tables from time to time. Practice on me, and then work your way up to Johnny."

Roy laughed. "Okay, it's a deal."

"What's so funny about that?" Joanne asked.

"It's just that, well, I had lunch with Johnny today, and he made me practice on him—practice bringing up what we just talked about. It was … bizarre."

"Yeah, I'll bet," said Joanne. "That's oddly … mature, for him."

"Okay, so that's one thing to work on—not bottling up," said Pritchard. "You've got your wife, and your partner, both of whom seem comfortable talking about intense topics."

Roy looked thoughtful. "And you know who else? Mike. I never really got it before the other day, but—well, I think I could talk to him. And I'd like to think maybe he would talk to me, too." Roy suddenly let out an annoyed huff of breath. "It's just—this is all so, I don't know …"

"Feminine?" Joanne suggested. "Unmanly? Girly? Threatening to your masculinity? Ball-shrinking and—"

"Okay, okay—I get it," said Roy. "Yeah."

"Well ponder this, big guy—how many women do you know of who've put their fists through walls?"

Roy didn't have to ponder long. "None?" he guessed.

"That's probably close," said Joanne. "I mean, I'm not saying women don't get stressed out. And I'm not saying we're somehow better than men, for not punching inanimate objects when we're upset. And like I said before, I know I can't possibly understand the stresses of your job, since it's not one I could do. But I just wish—" she inhaled and let out a sigh— "I just wish you would talk to me more about things that are upsetting at work. I'm not going to freak out on you—not even if it's really awful. And if you're starting to tell me something I don't think I can handle, I promise I'll stop you. Okay?"

"Okay," said Roy. "Yeah." He looked at Pritchard. "So, what else? What else do I still need to work on?"

Pritchard shook his head. "That ball's still in your court, Roy."

"Yeah," Roy nodded. "I guess I kind of knew that."

"You don't have to come up with everything right this second," said Pritchard. "Think about it. We can talk about this tomorrow, too. And since tomorrow is Friday, you'll have some time to think over the weekend as well."

"There is one more thing I think I should get out in the open," said Roy. "I've been thinking about—well, taking the Captain's test. The next round's not for seven or eight months, so there's still time to think about it. But I know I need to get better at certain things—like not being so non-confrontational—if that's going to be a good path for me. I mean, who knows—I might be a miserable captain—and I might do the same thing I did with the engineer's position a couple years ago, where I took the test but then didn't go for the position after I passed. But back then, I wasn't close to ready to give up being a paramedic. But now? I can think about it."

"You should definitely think about it," said Pritchard. "I think you have a lot of qualities that would make you an excellent captain, and you're working on some of the things that might make the job challenging for you. Another time, we can talk about the realities of that job—and you might also consider talking with Captain Stanley as well."

"I'll do that," said Roy. "I'll definitely do that." He rubbed his temples, realizing he was getting a headache.

Pritchard picked up on his body language. "I think you've done a huge amount of work today, Roy. What are your thoughts on the last couple of days?"

"Well, I guess today was kind of … I hate the word, but a breakthrough."

Pritchard nodded. "I would say so."

"I mean, there was this huge … thing. What did you call it? The elephant in the living room? Anyhow, this huge thing that I'd just been ignoring, for over a decade. For nearly my entire adult life," Roy realized. "And I'm not saying it's gonna be easy, but I think just acknowledging that the elephant is there might help me tame it."

"I certainly appreciate that," said Joanne. "Because from my perspective? That elephant has been crapping in the living room for twelve years, and sometimes I've felt like I'm the one who has to clean up all the shit."

"Yeah," said Roy. "I'm sorry. I'll see if I can't get that elephant to move out. And in the mean time, let's clean up some, uh, dung, together."

"Now that's my kind of colorful metaphor," laughed Pritchard. "I hope you don't mind if I borrow that sometime. But as for now: go home. Make some life-or-death plans if you want to, but also realize that you can put it off till tomorrow, just this once. Because I think that at least you, Roy, are probably done thinking about it for the day."

"Fine with me," said Joanne. "But Roy? I want us to go see a lawyer, next week, about wills, and that sort of thing. Okay?"

"It's a deal," said Roy, taking her hand. "And Bill?" He looked at Pritchard. "Thanks. I really mean it."

"I do, too, Dr. Pritchard," said Joanne. "Not that I wanted Roy to punch a hole in the wall, but I'm glad you were here to help him out. Help us out," she amended.

"Entirely my pleasure, Joanne." He stood up, and the others followed suit. "See you tomorrow."

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21.

Johnny sat at his kitchen table, drumming his green pen on the surface, staring at a blank sheet of paper. He knew he had to write, but didn't know how to start.

"Fuck this," he said to himself. He got up, went to the fridge, and poured himself a glass of milk. He stared at it, then opened a cabinet and got out a can of chocolate milk mix, spooned some into the milk, and mixed it in. He took his concoction back the table, sat down, and started writing.

"Dear Cap," he wrote, and drummed some more. "It's a start," he grumbled.

"Thanks for making me not write you an essay this time. I have to get this off my chest, though, so I'm writing you a letter instead."

"Idiot," he muttered. "He _knows_ it's a freakin' letter."

He continued writing. "I said already yesterday that I would quit doing dangerous stuff in a hurry so I would get there first. I am going to stop it. I promise I'll do a good size up of every scene before I jump into it. But what you don't know is I talked to Roy yesterday after he took me home. I told him something I didn't tell you, but I should. So I'm telling you now."

"Jesus, Gage; semi-fucking-literate," he said, "and now I'm crazy, talking to myself."

He put pen to paper once more. "The reason I got started with looking before I leap as you put it is because of Drew Burke. I don't know if you remember but he was my cop buddy who when he got hit by a car me and Roy got the run and he didn't make it. It was real hard for his wife and kid. And that got me thinking how I didn't want that to happen to Joanne and Chris and Jenny so that's when it started to get real bad. With my habit of doing all the dangerous stuff in a hurry so Roy wouldn't get a chance.

"But yesterday Roy said he can't work with me if I keep acting like that, and I have to prove that I quit that habit by asking you to watch me like a hawk which I know you'll be doing anyways. And I have to tell Brice the same thing and beleive me thats not easy because I don't like if he thinks I'm an idiot which he pretty much does anyhow so I geuss it doesn't matter.

"So please help me and watch to make sure I'm doing a better size up and not jumping in too fast. And if you can get Brice to not give me a hard time about this that would help too. Though he will probably be happy to try and change my ways. And thanks for being a great Cap. I don't think I could ever be as good a one as you are but I'll try someday.

"Sincerely, John Gage."

Johnny looked the letter over, and made a few corrections with white-out. He folded it up, and put it in an envelope, to leave on Captain Stanley's desk at their next shift.

~!~!~!~!~

Roy and Joanne DeSoto walked out to the HQ parking lot together.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Roy—but I'm really proud of you," Joanne said.

"I guess I'm pretty proud of myself, too," Roy admitted. "And—I should be able to stop saying this soon, I hope—I'm really sorry. Twelve years. Geez."

"And then, when we talked about it, it was all right, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it was. Just don't let me chicken out on all the stuff we have to follow up on."

"No sir, not gonna happen." Joanne paused. "Do you want to make the call to the lawyer, or do you want me to do it?"

"I think," Roy said, "I should do it, but you should check to make sure I did it. I'll do it Monday—he's probably gone for the weekend after four on a Friday."

"True." Joanne stood on her tiptoes to kiss Roy on the cheek. "I better go get the kids. See you at home."

"Wait—" Roy caught her shoulder gently as she turned around. "One more thing, before we're home with the kids. What did you think was gonna happen this afternoon? I mean, you were awfully upset, and I didn't really understand why. And I'm sorry if I made you get that way," he added.

Joanne sighed. "I was pretty sure you were giving up. I thought you'd worked out with Dr. Pritchard that you weren't going to be able to go back, and I knew that would kill you."

"Oh." Roy cleared his throat. "Well, as you heard, that's not the direction this is going. Luckily. Because you're right."

"And are you going to still be able to work with Johnny?" Joanne asked quietly.

"I think, if he's serious about working on his risky behavior, then yes."

"Good. Because dumping him—even for a good reason like this—would hurt you both."

"I know. I'm just glad he seemed to pretty much agree with me, once we'd cleared the air. Actually," Roy said thoughtfully, "the only advantage to my putting this stuff off for all these years is that even a year ago, or maybe two at most, Johnny wouldn't have been able to see my perspective on his behavior at all."

"No," Joanne said slowly, "probably not."

"I'm not quite sure what's come over him, but he's been acting more, well, grown up. And I was thinking earlier, it seems like it's sudden, but you know what I think?"

"You think that maybe he's been settling down for quite a while, but you just didn't notice because you were so wrapped up in your own shit?"

Roy was slightly startled at that response. "Uh, yeah. I guess you _do_ know what I think."

"It happens."

"Yeah, it does."

"And now," said Joanne, "I _really_ have to go get the kids."

"Okay," said Roy, "and I'll _really_ see you at home."

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: One of my goals as a writer is realism in dialogue. In this chapter, I include some usages that were common in the past, but are frowned upon today—wording such as referring to a patient as "a case" or "a heart case," as well as referring to a married woman using "Mrs." plus her husband's first and last name. Please take this in the spirit of this piece being set in the 1970s, and not as an indication that this type of wording is or should be used these days. It's simply how they would have spoken 30+ years ago.

And now, back to our (ir)regularly scheduled update.

Chapter 22.

_The next week; Tuesday. _

Roy trotted down the stairs from the second floor to the Emergency Department for his 0900 meeting with Dr. Brackett. They were planning on going over the brief they'd prepared for Senator Wolski, to see if there were any last minute changes they needed to get to the typing pool staff before their meeting with him tomorrow.

Roy was feeling a bit at loose ends, partly because he was feeling like the document he and Dr. Brackett had prepared was really going to be the culmination of his project, but also because today was the first day he'd started a day at Rampart without meeting with Dr. Pritchard beforehand. But, Pritchard had made it clear that Roy needed to start letting go—he had things to work on, but was ready to do most of the work on his own. So, at the end of their session yesterday, they'd agreed to cut back to twice a week. Dr. Pritchard had also said he would certainly sign off on the return-to-work note as soon as the orthopedist cleared him for active duty, on the condition that Roy would continue to attend sessions at least once a week after he returned to work. Roy was relieved about that, actually—he was actually starting to look forward to getting back to the action, but was worried how he'd handle things. And he was more than a little worried about what the dynamics with Johnny would be like.

As he exited the stairwell into the ER corridor, Roy could already hear the commotion of a critical patient being rushed from an ambulance into a treatment room. Roy hugged the wall of the corridor as the gurney rushed past. Charlie Dwyer from 51's C-shift was along for the fast ride—he straddled the patient on the gurney, performing CPR, as his partner worked the ambu-bag. The patient was a man who looked to be about fifty. The exposed skin on his upper body was grey, and what Roy could see of his face was the ashen blue of death. The paramedics' CPR was circulating blood, and the ambu-bag was inflating the lungs with air, but the man's body didn't look as if it had metabolized any oxygen any time recently.

_Another one_, Roy thought. But unlike the MVA victim he and Johnny had brought in, there was no way to prove in the field that this fellow wasn't going to make it. Roy sighed, and moved down the corridor to Dr. Brackett's office.

Just as Roy passed the nurses' station, Dr. Brackett rushed past, in the direction of the treatment room where 51's victim had been taken. The nurses' station was unpopulated, so Roy stayed behind in case something or someone was needed.

After a few minutes, Charlie and his partner emerged, sweaty and defeated looking, from the treatment room. They headed to the staff lounge, not noticing Roy behind the counter at the station. Roy didn't try to get their attention or stop them—the last thing they would want was to talk about what had just happened.

After several more minutes, Roy was beginning to wonder where all the ER's nurses were. From the positions of the color-coded tabs over the treatment room doors, they were all in use—an unusual situation first thing on a weekday morning. So Roy continued to wait at the desk.

A woman of about forty five came rushing in through the emergency entrance. Her eyes looked wildly up and down the hallway, until they fell on Roy.

Roy had a sinking feeling he knew who she was. He went up to her. "Can I help you with something, ma'am?"

"Please—the fire department called, and said my husband had just been brought here—did you bring him in?" She asked frantically, looking at his uniform and badge. "They said he'd had a heart attack—but he's been perfectly healthy! Hardly ever sick!"

"I don't know, ma'am," Roy said gently, "but I did see some other paramedics just bring someone in, and the doctors are with him right now. Can you tell me his name, and I'll ask whether he's the one they brought in?"

"Jerry Winquist—I'm Sandra Winquist."

"All right—why don't you have a seat in the waiting area here, and I'll be right back." He ushered Mrs. Winquist to one of the upholstered benches against the wall, and headed to the lounge.

Charlie and his partner—a young-looking blond man Roy was not familiar with—sat at the table in the lounge, heads down, hands wrapped around their coffee mugs.

"Charlie?" Roy asked quietly.

Charlie looked up.

"I've got a Mrs. Jerry Winquist in the waiting room. Was that her husband you just brought in?"

Charlie nodded, still not speaking.

"Is she gonna get bad news?" Roy asked, knowing the answer already.

"Yeah," said Charlie. "Full arrest when we got there, five zaps, no conversion, flatlined on the way in." He still didn't look up. "God, I'm glad it's not my job to tell her right now."

"Me, too," said Roy. "I'll go let her know that he's here."

"Yeah," said Charlie, "they're 'working on him right now,' right?"

"I'll tell her the doctor is with him," Roy said quietly. "I think that's fair."

"Nothing's fair, Roy. Nothing," said Charlie.

Roy laid his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "No, it's not. You're right—it's not." He gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze, and left him with his coffee and his partner.

Roy returned to the waiting area and sat down next to Mrs. Winquist. "Ma'am, your husband is here, and the doctor is with him now. I'll let the doctor know you're here. Do you need anything while you're waiting?"

"No, thank you," the woman said, twisting her handkerchief.

"All right."

Roy trudged down to the treatment room where Mr. Winquist had been taken, opened the door, and leaned his head and shoulders into the room. It was quiet—the bad kind of quiet, which meant machines had been turned off and efforts had ceased. Dixie was removing EKG pads from his chest, and another nurse was disposing of the IV tubing. Dr. Brackett was writing in the chart.

"Doc?" Roy asked quietly.

Brackett looked up.

"Mrs. Winquist is in the waiting area. I thought you should know."

Brackett sighed. "Thanks, Roy. Actually, I wonder if you wouldn't mind showing her to my office while I finish here. I'll just be a minute."

"Okay," said Roy, not entirely comfortable with this task, but grateful that Brackett was going to tell her in his office rather than in the waiting room.

He returned to the waiting woman. "Mrs. Winquist?"

She looked up, hopefully, expectantly.

"Dr. Brackett is with your husband now. He asked me to show you to his office, and he'll be out shortly."

Mrs. Winquist stood up, and clutched at Roy's arm as he led her to the office. She sat down in the chair Roy offered her, in front of Dr. Brackett's desk. She didn't let go of his arm.

"He's dead, isn't he. That's why you brought me in here," she said calmly.

Roy cringed, inwardly, but showed nothing on the outside. "Ma'am, I'm not supposed to discuss—"

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." She looked up at Roy. "He was a medic in Korea, my Jerry was," she said proudly, but already instinctively using the past tense. "I suppose that's a lot like what you fellows do—you paramedics."

"Yes, ma'am; except usually nobody's shooting at us while we're doing it."

"I imagine you're probably very good at your job, Mr.—" she peered at his name tag— "DeSoto. Your wife must be very proud of you."

Roy considered her statement, and answered honestly. "Yes, ma'am, I think she just might be."

"Your ambulance, or fire truck, must need you back by now," she commented, still not letting go of his arm. Roy realized she probably wasn't even aware she was still clutching him.

"No ma'am; I'm working in the hospital for a few weeks while this heals up." He held up his cast. "The cast comes off in two more days, and then I'll go back a week or two after that."

"You must be looking forward to getting back to your work."

"Yes ma'am," Roy said, instinctively giving her a polite confirmation. But then, when he thought about what he said, he realized it was true—even given what he'd just seen. "Yes, I really, honestly am," he said, more to himself than to her.

Dr. Brackett entered the office, and was surprised to see Roy sitting next to Mrs. Winquist. "Thanks Roy; you can go now."

"Oh no, he can't." Mrs. Winquist said, utterly calmly. "You see, I need someone to hold on to. You can't make him go."

Brackett looked at Roy, and Roy nodded. "It's okay, Doc."

Bracket sighed. "All right." He looked at Mrs. Winquist.

"Mrs. Winquist, I'm Dr. Brackett. I cared for your husband after he was brought here by the paramedics."

"I understand," she said calmly. "You couldn't help him, could you." It wasn't a question, but nor was it spoken as an accusation.

"No, ma'am; I'm afraid not. I'm very sorry, but there was nothing we could do. He'd had a massive heart attack, and the paramedics did everything they could, as did we, but there was no way to save him. I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Winquist's tears had finally started to flow. She let go of Roy's arm so she could have both hands to cover her face with her handkerchief.

"Is there anyone you'd like us to call for you?" Dr. Brackett asked.

"My daughter. Please call my daughter—she's home with the baby, I know she'll be there." Mrs. Winquist gave Dr. Brackett her daughter's name and number.

Roy stood there awkwardly. There was nothing he could do, but he hadn't been dismissed. He saw his chance just before Dr. Brackett picked up the phone.

"Dr. Brackett, Mrs. Winquist, can I get you a cup of coffee or something?"

Mrs. Winquist shook her head.

Brackett looked up as if he hadn't realized Roy was still there. "No, thank you, Roy; why don't you head back out to the nurses' station and see if Dixie needs a hand with anything?"

Roy knew perfectly well Dixie would not need a hand with anything, and that Dr. Brackett would know that too. But, he was thankful for the hall pass nonetheless. He blew out a breath, and took in a new if somewhat shaky one, and replied. "Sure, Doc. Mrs. Winquist, I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Mr. DeSoto. And thank you for your help earlier."

"You're welcome." Roy backed towards the door a few steps, and then turned and left the room.

He headed to the nurses' station after all.

"Roy?" asked Dixie, studying him carefully. "You were just in Kel's office with Mrs. Winquist, weren't you. You all right?"

"Yeah, Dix. Yeah, I am. He—" Roy cleared his throat nervously— "he did a really good job with her."

"That's a pretty big statement, considering what happened last time you saw him talk with a new widow."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it. He did better. I did better too."

"You sure did, Roy. You sure did."

~!~!~!~!~

An hour or so later, after Mrs. Winquist's daughter had come to pick up her mother, Dr. Brackett came knocking on Roy's door.

"Come on in, Doc," said Roy, looking up from his legal pad, where he had been busily writing down some thoughts about Mr. Winquist's situation—and the situation of Dwyer and his partner.

"Well, I suppose our meeting got forcibly rescheduled, didn't it," said Brackett. "Every treatment room was in business this morning, even without any mass casualty incidents."

"It's okay—in the fire service, you learn to never count on anything happening at a particular time," Roy said.

Brackett snorted. "Yes, I suppose you do, even more than in my line of business. In any case, we still have some ground to cover before our meeting with Senator Wolski tomorrow. Would you care to come down to my office?" He looked at the freshly written-upon legal pad that was sitting in front of Roy. "Or if you're in the middle of something, we could meet after lunch."

"Huh? No, this is just an idea that popped into my head this morning," Roy said. He scooped up the pad, and added it to the pile of things to go over with in their meeting. "Sure, now is fine—and your office is sure a better place to have a meeting. I have to say, it's been interesting having my own office, but I won't miss the place."

"That cast should be coming off pretty soon, if I'm remembering correctly," Brackett said as they exited the stairwell.

"Yep—day after tomorrow. That is, if it hasn't fallen off on its own by then. It's getting pretty beat up."

"Well, plaster does have a tendency towards weak spots—and casts on the hand sure take a lot of wear and tear."

Brackett held his office door open for Roy, and they went in and sat down.

"Doc, you mind if I say something first?"

"Sure, go ahead," Brackett said, one eyebrow raised, body leaned forward in his chair.

"I, uh," Roy cleared his throat. "I know it's not really my place to say this, but I thought you did great with Mrs. Winquist." He paused. "That's all."

Brackett sat back in his chair. "Thank you, Roy. That means a lot to me, coming from you."

Roy cringed. "Uh, coming from me?" he asked nervously.

Brackett smiled reassuringly. "Yes—you see, at some level, I've always known I needed to work on, well, sensitivity with patients. And, to your detriment, I'm afraid, it took a fist through a wall to make me see that I couldn't just keep saying to myself that I'd get better at it with time. So—yes, 'coming from you' is a key phrase here."

"Wow. Okay. Thanks," Roy said simply, not knowing what else to say.

"Really, I should be the one saying that—so I'll say it: thanks."

"You're welcome."

Roy sat in the chair across from Brackett, and fiddled with the edges of his stack of papers in a way that rivaled his partner's inability to sit still. If he'd learned one thing from working with Dr. Brackett for the last four weeks, it was that even though he respected the man immensely, and had even come to like him over the years—at least, like him most of the time—he probably wouldn't ever really be comfortable with him, in a friendly sort of way. If he'd learned a second thing, it was that he could deal with the first thing.

"So—anything you think we need to change on this brief?" Dr. Brackett asked, ending the uncomfortable silence.

Roy pulled out the copy he'd been looking at the previous afternoon, and they started going over some of the small changes Roy had thought of. It didn't take too long for them to agree on wording for the minor changes, and to get the final draft sent off to the typing pool, with plenty of time to spare for having the final clean copies ready in time for their meeting tomorrow.

"So, Roy—I noticed you brought the notes you were working on this morning. Anything I can help with?" Dr. Brackett asked.

"I'm not sure—it's something I was thinking about after I saw Mr. Winquist being brought in this morning. You see, his case doesn't fall into any of the protocols we worked on for this project, but it's something we see an awful lot of."

"Yes, it certainly is—not just heart attacks, but really, any case where someone loses their pulse in a prehospital setting. We're talking about drownings, ODs, and a whole laundry list of other causes."

"So what I was thinking about, was, let's say the same thing happens in the OR, when a patient is having surgery—a situation where the was no prehospital treatment, since whatever happened to make things go sour happened right in the hospital. The patient has had zero prehospital treatment, so that's out of the picture entirely. You've got an anesthesiologist monitoring the patient constantly. So in that scenario, where you have the most information you could possibly have about the patient's state, how do you know when to stop resuscitation efforts?" Roy asked.

"Well," said Dr. Brackett, "I think one nail you've hit on the head there is the presence of the anesthesiologist, and his equipment. They can monitor things you simply can't monitor in the field."

"Like what?" Roy pressed. "I mean, even ten years ago, a field EKG was unthinkable, so what could we work towards for ten years from _now, _that could make a difference in knowing when to call it? I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't ever want to call a death in the field without medical control on the line, but since we're your eyes and ears and hands in the field, what other tools could we have?"

Brackett leaned back in his chair once more, resting his chin on steepled fingers. "That's a very intriguing question. If I had to pick something right now, I'd pick oxymetry and capnography—knowing whether the patient's blood is oxygenated, and how well they're exhaling carbon dioxide, which would give us some clues about whether the victim is still metabolizing oxygen. But that's pretty sophisticated technology—I don't have the faintest idea whether it would ever be possible to have something like that in the field."

"Just a thought—I know it sounds kind of like something from Star Trek, but in ten years, or twenty—who knows?" Roy said.

"True," said Dr. Brackett. "I'll tell you what—I'll run the 'what new tools' question past our anesthesiology department, and who knows? You wouldn't happen to know any inventors, would you?"

Roy made a face, immediately reminded of Station 51's disastrous attempts at inventing fire service gadgets a few years previously. "Not of the type you have in mind, no."

"Do I even want to know?" asked Dr. Brackett, as he gathered up the papers to take to the typists.

"I'll give you a possible headline: Firefighting Device Bursts Into Flames."

"Ah. Did Johnny have anything to do with this debacle?"

Roy grinned. "No, surprisingly, he had a really good idea. He just thought it was too simple."

They both stood up to head out of the office.

"Roy, before we go…"

"Yeah, Doc?"

"I don't want to pry, but—it seems like you're doing a lot better. Am I right?"

"Yeah, Doc. You're right. I'm gonna be ready to go back."

"Good," said Dr. Brackett. "I think I speak for everyone in the ER when I say we'd have hated to lose you, for whatever reason. But especially for that one."

"Thanks, Doc. Yeah, I'm really gonna be ready."

**TBC**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23.

_The next day._

Roy was wide awake early on Wednesday—much too early for his taste. It had been hard for him to get to sleep, as he was thinking far too much about the upcoming meeting with Senator Wolski. He'd never met a state senator before, and even though Wolski was the same man Roy had met years previously during the campaign to legally authorize the paramedic program, he was intimidated by the idea of having a conversation with an actual state senator.

He reset the alarm for the time he knew Joanne would want to get up, and headed for the shower to get an early start on the day. Hanging by the shower were the plastic bread bags and rubber bands he'd been using for the past month to cover his cast while he was in the shower. He realized that tomorrow's shower would—hopefully—be the last time he needed to use this contraption. Unless the x-rays showed something unexpected, he anticipated being free of his plaster prison in just over twenty eight hours. Not that he was counting.

While he was in the shower, Roy thought about—but immediately dismissed—various ways to try to get out of the meeting. He might as well tag along—after all, it would really be Dr. Brackett that the senator would be talking to most of the time. Maybe they would ask him some token questions to make him feel included, but really, it was going to be their show.

Roy toweled off and went back to the bedroom. He dressed as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Joanne. He headed to the kitchen, and, on a whim, decided to make a batch of pancakes. He was midway through cooking the last batch on the griddle when Joanne came down the stairs.

"Wow," she said. "That's unexpected."

"Yeah, well, I was up early, so I thought I'd do something useful."

"I'd call that useful, all right. Pancakes are always useful. And on a weekday, too! That's just what I need to help get the kids up and dressed—a pancake incentive!" She planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'll go get the kids up, and we'll be back down again in record time."

Roy finished cooking the last batch of flapjacks, and put them all in the oven to stay warm while he set the table. Sure enough, after only a few minutes, four small feet thundered down the stairs, and what seemed like far more than two small children tumbled into the eat-in kitchen.

The family ate their breakfast quickly, and Roy said his goodbyes and departed for his work day. Pulling into the lot at Rampart, he once again felt nervous about his meeting, and tried to think of some realistic ways to get out of it.

He went straight up to his office, not stopping in the ER as he often did. There was a pink message slip on his door. He peeled it off, curious about why he'd have a message.

"Dr. Brackett called. Senator Wolski has an unexpected meeting around noon, and will be coming to Rampart at 10:00 instead of after lunch."

Great, Roy thought. The meeting would be out of the way earlier in the day. Roy thought he might even knock off a little early if the meeting went well. He might even pick the kids up at school.

Roy spent the morning talking with paramedics from other parts of the state who were attached to ambulance companies rather than fire departments. Some of them had never been firefighters, and Roy was interested in this new breed of paramedic. He was skeptical at first, but the more he talked to people in those programs, the more interested he became. He was planning to try to get to a town where they did things that way and do a ride-along or two, just to see how things were different. He had just arranged something for the following week when he realized it was nearly ten. He locked his office, and went down the stairs to Dr. Brackett's office, where he and the doctor would be meeting the senator.

Roy knocked on Dr. Brackett's door.

"Come on in!"

"G'mornin', Doc," said Roy.

"Good morning!" Brackett said, with uncharacteristic cheer. "So, today's the big day. And tomorrow, too."

Roy certainly hadn't forgotten that his cast was coming off the next day. "Yep—I have to say I won't miss this hunk of plaster."

Brackett's phone rang, the single buzz of a call from an inside line, before they got any further with their conversation.

"Brackett," he answered. "Thanks—we'll be right up." He replaced the phone. "All right, Roy—the senator's in the main lobby. Let's go meet and greet, and bring him on down."

They headed out of the office. Dixie was at the desk at the nurse's station, just answering a call. She gestured to them to wait, a concerned frown on her face.

"We'll be ready," she said as she hung up the phone. She turned to Dr. Brackett. "Kel, that was County Dispatch. There's been a major pile-up on the 405, involving a tractor-trailer and a bus. From the initial police reports, they're telling us to expect five majors and seven minors."

Dr. Brackett's eyebrows met above his nose. He looked at Roy.

"Roy, it looks like you're going to be on your own with the senator—I'm about to be up to my elbows in trauma."

Roy froze, and looked back at Brackett with wide eyes.

"You'll be fine," Kel said. "You did ninety-five percent of the work and research on this project, and if there are any questions that I need to answer, well, the senator will just have to understand."

Roy realized he really had no choice in the matter. "Okay," he said shakily. "Good luck," he said, as he left the ER to head to the lobby.

"Make yourself at home in my office," Dr. Brackett said, as Roy left.

_Good thing I didn't try to get out of this_, Roy thought, _or we'd be leaving the senator high and dry. Nothing for it. I'll do my best, and that will have to be good enough._

~!~!~!~!~

"Now remember what I said, Brice—you're keepin' an eye out for idiocy, but you're not my boss, and you're not babysitting. Right?"

"Correct. I will inform you of any unwise actions you appear to be about to take. And after each incident to which we respond, I will debrief you—"

"With an emphasis on _brief_!"

"_Debrief_ _you_," Brice continued firmly, "on your apparent safety judgment. I will report on your behavior in this area to Captain Stanley at the end of the shift."

"Just that area. Nothing else."

"Correct."

"Fine." Johnny cleared his throat. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Johnny didn't know what else to say, and Brice never kept conversations moving, so Johnny just left the day room and went out to the apparatus bay, with no specific task in mind. To his mild dismay, Brice followed.

"It's been a quiet shift so far," Brice said. "Perhaps we could take this time to—"

BWAM, BWOOM BWEEEEEEP! "_Station 15, Station 36, Engine 10, Squad 10, motor vehicle accident, tractor trailer and bus involved, multiple injuries reported, 405 northbound between exits 19 and 20; 405 northbound between exits 19 and 20. Time out: 0955._"

Without another word, Johnny and Brice got the squad rolling to the scene. For once, the idiot drivers of Los Angeles had not clogged the breakdown lanes, and the squad and the engine were both able to pass by the motionless traffic—until about a hundred yards from the wreck, where vehicles were at a standstill in every available nook and cranny. A highway patrol motorcycle officer was already instructing drivers to clear the left shoulder, and a path large enough for the squad to pass through was cleared within a minute. Brice maneuvered the squad through the hole in the mess, and pulled past the worst part of the wreck.

Johnny sized up the scene and got on the HT. "Engine 51, Squad 51. Confirmed: semi truck has struck a bus. Bus is on its side. Several passenger cars involved. Nothing is showing smoke, but we have a strong odor of diesel. You have a hydrant on the median between your location and the scene."

"_Squad 51 from Engine 51, copy that._"

"Dispatch from Squad 51. Advise units arriving from the north to stage from the southbound lanes; they will be unable to turn to enter the scene."

"_Copy, 51,_" replied the dispatcher.

The semi was jackknifed, with the trailer across all the lanes of traffic. The body of the cab was embedded in the underside of the bus.

A passenger car was flipped upside down, rocking precariously on the guard rail. Johnny could hear the cries of at least one passenger inside, probably one in the back seat, and started towards the vehicle. On the passenger side of the car, he could see that one person had been partially ejected, and he could immediately tell the injuries were incompatible with life. He took two steps forward, and watched the car rock side to side, once, twice.

"Gage …" Brice said warningly.

"I know."

Johnny went around to the front of the car, and looked through the shattered windshield at the driver, careful to approach from the front so the man wouldn't try to turn his head. The driver, who was belted into his seat, had blood streaming over his face from wounds from windshield glass, and appeared semi-conscious. There was no way Johnny could gauge the extent of his injuries without putting himself in jeopardy—the car needed to be stabilized before a sane person would even think about climbing inside. It took every ounce of self restraint he had not to climb into the car.

"Sir, try not to move your head or neck. Some firemen are going to come right away to get you out of the car. Try not to move!"

And though every part of him screamed _get in the car, get him out of there, do it, do it!_ Johnny backed away, and left the unstable vehicle where it was. "Engine 51 from Squad 51. You're needed to stabilize a green sedan, two occupants, prior to extrication."

"_Copy, Squad 51,_" came Mike Stoker's voice over the radio.

Johnny turned away from the car, and tried to put it out of his mind. "Brice, I'm gonna do triage in the bus. It looks stable—the entire driver's side is flat on the ground."

"Agreed," said Brice. "I'll check the three other cars, and then the cab of the truck."

Johnny grabbed a dry-chem can, the trauma box, the biophone, and a supply of colored tags for marking treatment priorities. He ran around to the rear of the bus. The emergency exit was mercifully unaffected by the collision, and a levelheaded, uninjured passenger had already managed to open it.

Johnny climbed over the open door, and into the rear of the bus. He could hear crying, moaning, and some sounds of panic. The first person he encountered was likely the one who had opened the door.

"Oh thank god, a paramedic! You've got a lot of hurt people here—I'm a nurse," explained the woman. "I've got the walking wounded lined up over here to get out, but they're going to need a boost. If you want to give me some tags, I'll help with the triage."

Johnny contemplated for a moment. It wasn't standard procedure to allow civilians to participate in triage, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and this woman seemed to have her head mounted firmly on her shoulders.

"All right." He handed her some tags. "Anyone I need to get to right now?"

She nodded. "Second row from the front—compound fracture with arterial spurting. Another passenger is putting pressure on the artery, but the guy had already lost over 1000 ccs."

"Got it." Johnny ran up to the front, and found the passenger in question. He contacted Rampart, and was instructed to control bleeding, start two IVs, treat pain, splint the fracture, and transport immediately. He did so as swiftly as he could, and was immediately directed to the next patient by the nurse.

Johnny took a look at this patient, and called for a backboard and manpower. He passed two people with black tags, and double checked their status, since he had not placed the tags himself. The nurse, however, had been correct. And he took the next red-tagged patient, and the next, until they all ran together in a blur. He was aware of Cap, Mike, Marco and Chet carrying people out of the bus, and he was aware of other paramedics arriving on the scene. He didn't see Brice—either that didn't bode well for the passengers of the other vehicles, or it meant that he'd ridden in with one of the more critical patients from the bus.

After what seemed like a year, he surveyed the bus, and found nobody else who needed him. He climbed out the emergency exit, waded through the foam that covered the spilled fuel, and sat on the ground next to the guard rail. He sat there, and sat there.

"John?"

Johnny looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, which he realized was already past its zenith. Captain Stanley reached a hand down to help him up.

"John, there's one more ambulance, with two non-critical patients, ready to go."

Johnny took Cap's hand, and let himself be hauled to his feet. He walked slowly to the remaining ambulance.

"And Gage?"

Johnny turned to Cap's voice.

"You did the right thing."

~!~!~!~!~

As Roy reached the reception desk in the hospital's main lobby, he immediately recognized the senator.

"Senator Wolski?" he asked hesitantly.

"Hello, Mr. DeSoto! It's nice to see you."

They did the awkward, confused left-handed hand-shaking dance that Roy was accustomed to by now, having his right hand in a cast.

"Senator, thanks so much for coming to Rampart while you're in L.A. I'm afraid I have bad news, though—there was just a major accident on the highway a mile or two from here, and the ER is expecting a dozen or so casualties any time. Dr. Brackett will be tied up for at least a few hours."

"Oh, well, that's all right," said the senator. "I'm really more interested in talking to you, anyhow."

Roy took a step back, eyebrows raised.

The senator laughed, not unkindly. "You see, you're the paramedic—you're the one that's actually out in the field doing the work. He's the doctor, which is of course completely necessary, but the original Wedsworth-Townsend act wasn't about getting doctors into the field—it was about putting paramedics in the field to do what doctors can't. Which is to be at a scene on a moment's notice, and take care of people there in unbelievable conditions. And because your field is so new, and because it's a specialized field, in which you work under the supervision of doctors, it's tightly regulated in ways that the medical profession isn't. Everything you can do is laid out in the law—and if you need to be able to do something new, or do something differently, the law has to change. And that's why I'm here."

"Okay," Roy said nervously. "Uh, why don't we go down to Dr. Brackett's office?"

"Good idea," said the senator. "And I promise—I don't bite." They walked down the hall towards the large double doors that led to the emergency room. "By the way, what happened to your hand?"

"Oh, this?" Roy held up the cast. "I broke it about a month ago. The cast comes off tomorrow afternoon, and not a second too soon for my tastes."

"I know what you mean," said the senator. "I broke my ankle last year, in the summer, and the cast was just about as unpleasant as the original injury. How'd you do it? On the job, I'm guessing—some of your rescue work sounds awfully dangerous."

"I suppose you could say it was on the job," Roy said ruefully, as he opened Brackett's office door. "I kind of, um, lost my temper, and punched a hole in the wall of the staff lounge."

"Ouch," said Wolski, wincing. They took the two chairs across from Dr. Brackett's desk.

"Actually, we have my little temper tantrum to thank for our meeting today," Roy admitted.

"Oh?"

"You see, the incident that really, uh, pushed me over the edge, was a guy who we all knew wasn't going to make it—but once we'd started treatment, there was no legal way to stop. And the indignity of it all, plus thinking about the hazards of a red lights and siren response with a patient who was really dead already—well, I was already really stressed out, but that sent me over the edge," Roy admitted.

"Understandably," said the senator. "I read over your summary of what you wanted to talk about today. Dr. Brackett said you'd have a brief for me to look at today that will fill in the blanks about exactly what needs to be changed in the law in the near future. Can I take a look at that?"

"Sure," said Roy. He went to the other side of the desk, and handed Senator Wolski a folder with a copy of the brief. "How about it I get us some coffee from the cafeteria while you're reading that over, and then we can talk about it?"

"Excellent idea—thanks. I take mine black."

Roy passed through the ER on the way to the cafeteria. The department was in full-blown crisis mode, with the casualties from the incident on the 405 starting to pour in. He saw Craig Brice come in, holding up two IV bags above a patient who appeared to have multiple serious injuries. He forgot about the senator, for a moment, as two more gurneys were wheeled in, accompanied by a paramedic from Squad 36.

With his hand still in the cast, there was nothing he could volunteer to do, so he left the ER, and felt absurdly useless as he trudged to the cafeteria, purchased two cups of coffee, and returned to Dr. Brackett's office.

The senator looked up from the brief. "It sounds bad out there."

Roy nodded. "It's bad. They have everything they can handle, and then some. I wish I could help, but I can't. Not with this," he said, holding up the dingy cast.

"Next time," said the senator. "Next time you'll help."

"Yeah," said Roy. "Yeah, I will."

~!~!~!~!~

Roy and Senator Wolski spent over two hours talking about the proposals in the brief. Halfway through their talk, the senator borrowed Dr. Brackett's phone to cancel his lunch meeting.

"It was just going to be an ass-kissing session anyhow—and _they_ were going to be kissing _my_ ass, so I can skip it," he said. "I'll take you to lunch in the cafeteria—that'll be a much better use of my time."

The senator asked Roy questions about every aspect of the proposal, and made some suggestions that Roy penciled in on a copy of the brief. There were one or two questions relating to medical control policies and procedures that Roy couldn't answer, but he took down the questions so he and Dr. Brackett could discuss them later.

Finally, just after two o'clock, the senator was out of questions.

"Well, Mr. DeSoto, I have to say this has been one of my more interesting field trips. I'm really impressed with the thought and time you and Dr. Brackett have put in to this proposal—that makes it much easier to turn ideas into bills."

"Thanks," said Roy. "It was an interesting project, and a really good way to keep busy while I couldn't do my real job."

"Well, I'll tell you something. If you ever feel like getting out of the action, give me a call—I know you could do worlds of good in the administrative domain, given your experience and your knack for collecting and organizing data."

Roys eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Thanks, but honestly, I can't see myself doing this kind of work long term. My heart and soul are out in the field, and that's where they'll be as long as the rest of me can keep up."

The senator laughed. "I gathered that, but it was worth a try." He packed his papers into his briefcase, and he and Roy walked to the lobby. "It was a great pleasure working with you today, Mr. DeSoto, and I mean that sincerely." He gracefully extended his left hand, and Roy shook it firmly.

"Thanks, Senator. I appreciate your time, and I'm sorry Dr. Brackett wasn't able to make it."

"Well, we managed just fine without him, didn't we? I'll be in touch," said the senator, as he left the building and got into the official state government car that was waiting.

Roy headed back to the ER, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was. He went through the double doors, and returned to Dr. Brackett's office, just to collect his papers.

The ER was eerily quiet, which probably meant that most patients had been admitted, were in surgery, or had been discharged. Roy decided to see if he could find out more about the incident, and he knew where to go to do so.

He opened the door to the staff lounge, and found the mixture of white and blue uniforms he was expecting. He immediately zeroed in on Johnny, who was sitting slouched on the sofa, eyes partially closed, hands cradling an untouched cup of coffee.

Roy sat next to him. "Hey, partner," he said quietly.

Johnny's eyes opened most of the way.

"God, Roy," Johnny said, without preamble. "That was the worst MVA I've ever been at. I don't even have any idea how many people I treated. Ten? Fifteen? I don't even know. The first bunch? Red tags, all the way. I had to replace two of them with black tags as soon as I saw 'em. And Roy?" Johnny said, looking up despairingly at his partner, "I had to just walk away from one of the cars. The squad got there first, and the car was just rocking back and forth, teetering upside down on the guard rail, and I could see the driver was critical, and I had to just …"

"I know, Johnny. You had to leave him until the engine stabilized the car. That's the right thing to do—especially since you had lots of other people to treat. You did the right thing," Roy said.

"And look, Roy," Johnny said dully. "Not a scratch. There's not a scratch on me."

**TBC**


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24.

_Wednesday evening._

Johnny picked and poked at his dinner, shoving food around on the plate, mixing things together, and taking them apart again. He sorted all the green beans by length, arranged the mashed potatoes into a perfect cube, and finally, dissected his chicken drumstick into carefully ordered parcels of skin, tendon, bone, and individual muscle segments.

"Fer cryin' out loud, Gage—this is the dinner table, not an anatomy lab. If you're not gonna eat your food, at least make it possible for the rest of us to eat ours!" Chet made a show of moving his chair away from Johnny's. "Besides, it's a damned fine example of Stoker's finest roasted chicken, and we don't want our best cook to get offended."

"I'm pretty hard to offend, actually," Stoker interjected. "But Gage, don't starve yourself, all right?"

"I'm with Kelly," said Marco. "That's gross, Gage."

Brice peered over at Johnny's plate. "Personally, I find the vegetable arrangements aesthetically pleasing. And from an anatomical perspective, his portion of chicken is—"

"Aw, c'mon, Cap! Make him stop!" Chet whined. "I'm tryin' to eat my dinner!"

"All right, twits," Cap said. "You've all had your say; now lay off. And John, I can't order you to eat, but I can beg: please, eat your dinner, so you don't get all hypoglycemic on our next call, okay?"

"Yeah, fine. All right, Cap." Johnny rearranged his food so it looked like a normal dinner, and tucked in. Once he put his mind to it, his plate was clean in five minutes.

"See?" said Captain Stanley. "That's better. Gage, you're excused from KP—I'd like to see you in my office after supper, all right?"

Chet and Marco immediately started in with the rising "ooohs" and whistles worthy of second graders whose friend was being sent to the principal's office.

"Can it, guys," said Johnny. "I'm not in the mood. B'sides, if I was in _that_ bad of trouble, he'd wait till after the dishes were done, right? So I guess I'm not dryin' dishes tonight after all. Have fun with that." He got up, and cleared his place. "I'll be in your office, Cap."

Captain Stanley didn't make Johnny wait too long. He cleared his place, and helped pack up the leftovers, which were rare on Mike's night to cook, and further confirmed that Johnny was in a funk. He arrived in his office, and found Johnny slouched in the chair across from the desk.

"So I'm probably in trouble after all, right?" Johnny said.

"Not from me, you're not," Hank said, sitting down in the chair on his side of the desk. "What I wanted to say, was that you did a terrific job today at the bus crash. I know you had a terribly hard time in the bus—I looked in on you several times, and I could see how bad it was."

Johnny took his green pen out of his pocket and started clicking the button on the end, making the ball point go in and out, in and out of the barrel. "It was. I was tellin' Roy, that was about the worst MVA I ever worked. But to be honest, Cap? It's not the bus that's bothering me."

Cap let out a deep breath, relieved that Johnny had opened the door so politely for him. "I know. It's the green sedan, isn't it. You had to call the engine in to stabilize the car before the victims could be extricated."

Johnny nodded. "A week ago? I would've jumped right in. Mighta been the right thing to do, mighta been the wrong thing. But Cap—I didn't even get to see what kind of shape the driver was in!"

"Let me tell you something, John. Two things, really. First—Mike and Chet and I eventually cribbed that car till you could jump on it and it wouldn't budge. I was right next to the driver the whole time. I'm pretty sure he'd finished bleeding out before the engine even got there—and before you say a thing, let me finish. When we got him out, John, it was obvious he wouldn't have had a chance, all right?"

Johnny couldn't help himself. "But Cap, he seemed like he was semi-conscious! How could he not have had a chance?"

"I wondered the same thing, so I asked Brice about it later. The thing is, John, he was upside down. All the blood he had left in his body was probably in his head when you saw him. John, the guy came out of the car in more than one piece, all right? The only way he still had any semblance of semi-consciousness has to have been because he was upside down. If you'd seen him in the bus—well, you'd've given him a black tag. He wasn't in any better shape than the passenger—his brain just lasted longer, because he was hanging upside down."

"Oh."

Cap paused to let that unpleasant information sink in.

"What was the other thing, Cap? You said 'two things.'"

"I told you we cribbed the car, but not this part. It fell off the guard rail first, pal. You'd never crib a car that was hung up like that—you'd use struts, right? But the hood ripped off, just as we were starting to set up the struts, and the whole vehicle just crashed into the ground. We cribbed it after that—we had to act as if the guy was maybe still alive, because we couldn't get to him to really tell. But John, if you'd even thought about getting enough of you into that car to check the driver over before the car was stable, you'd've been pulped—I guarantee it. So you know what, Gage? Even though he wasn't anywhere near the scene, Roy saved your life today."

Johnny suddenly stopped his obsessive clicking of his pen. "Oh." He put his pen in his pocket. "Oh," he repeated.

"Yeah, 'oh.' So, good work, John. By you, by Brice, and by Roy. I know it's been tough for you, working with Brice these last few weeks—"

"Aw, Cap—he's not actually all that bad."

Cap's eyes widened. "He's not?"

"Nah. He talks like that Star Trek guy with the pointy ears, and he's about as flexible as a cement pencil, but he's all right."

"He is?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong—I'll be real glad for Roy to be back—but Brice and I, we've come to an understanding."

"Okay, can you let me in on this? Because quite frankly, John, I'm not sure I could've tolerated working with him as closely as you have the past few weeks."

"Here's how I see it—I don't understand him, and he sure as hell doesn't understand me, but I get how he does the job, and he gets how I do the job, and—aw, I'm no good at explaining this stuff—but we make it work." Johnny looked back up at Cap. "But I'll still be damned glad for Roy to be back. I was real worried about him there, for a while, but I think he's doin' better."

Hank Stanley stared across the desk at the youngest member of his shift—the one who had caused him more worry and heartache than all the rest put together. He couldn't believe what he was about to say, but he said it anyhow. "Do me a favor, John. When Roy gets back, keep an eye on him for me during squad-only calls, will ya? I mean, just let me know if it really seems like he's okay."

"Sure thing, Cap. I kinda feel bad, you know, looking back, that I didn't say anything before."

Cap shook his head. "I don't think any of us—even Roy—realized how bad things had gotten for him. I think it just crept up, slowly, and not one of us really got it."

~!~!~!~!~

_Thursday morning._

Roy sat in the waiting area of the orthopedist's office suite, doing his best to be patient, and failing miserably. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, wagged his foot up and down furiously, turned pages of an uninteresting magazine without reading a single word, and sighed repeatedly.

"Lemme guess," said a heavyset guy with a bent-arm cast. "Cast comes off today."

"Yeah," said Roy.

The man nodded. "I've been there before. I've still got another couple weeks in this one, though. I sure was glad to get the leg one off last week, though—mighty tough gettin' around with a broken arm and a broken leg on the same side."

"Let _me_ guess," Roy said. "MVA? I mean, car crash? You were driving, and someone ran a red, or blew a stop sign, and T-boned you, right in the driver's side?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Yeah—how'd you guess?"

"It's your left arm, and it was your left leg—so you probably took the impact side-on. Most vehicles these days only have one person in them—the driver—and when you're in the driver's seat, it's your left side that takes the damage if you get broadsided."

"Wow, that's some detective work," the man said, shaking his head.

"I'm a firefighter and paramedic, so I've seen it before."

"No kidding?" The man seemed impressed. "Two of you guys pulled me outta that wreck. I sure wasn't too happy about it at the time, but I know now they did a mighty fine job. So even though I don't think you were one of 'em, thanks."

Roy smiled. "You're welcome."

"You lookin' forward to gettin' back to your work?" the man asked.

"I am," said Roy. "In fact, I can't wait."

A nurse stepped into the waiting area. "Mr. DeSoto?"

Roy stood up. "That's me," he announced, partly to the nurse, and partly to his conversation partner.

"Good luck," said the man.

"Good luck to you, too," Roy replied, as he went through the door with the nurse.

The nurse showed him into a small room with a variety of equipment hanging from the walls.

"All right—let's get this thing off, shall we?" she said. "So this saw can only cut hard things—it won't do a thing to skin, see?" she said, running the saw over her own hand.

"Okay," said Roy. "Let 'er rip."

The cast was so small that it took only a minute to cut through the plaster, and then another few seconds for the nurse to cut through the padding with her shears. The skin looked gray and flaky, and Roy couldn't wait to scrub it down thoroughly.

"If you want to wash it off, you can use that sink right there," the nurse said, as if reading his mind. "You'll be tempted to scrub, but don't—the skin will be pretty sensitive."

"Okay," Roy said, heading for the sink. He let the heavenly, cool water wash away a month's worth of itching and sweat, and gently soaped and rinsed his hand. The fingers felt stiff, as did his wrist joint, but nothing hurt when he moved it carefully.

"How does that feel?" asked the nurse.

"A little stiff, but fine."

"Good. That's about par for the course," she said. "The doctor wants another set of x-rays, just to be sure everything looks good, and then we'll send you on your way for a little bit of physical therapy, just so you can be good and ready to go back to your job. If you were a desk worker, we'd say don't bother with the PT, but since your work is pretty hands-on, you should get your strength and flexibility back in good order before you return."

"Sounds good," Roy said, as the nurse led him to the x-ray room. She took one picture with his hand flat on the film, and another at an angle, and placed the film in the developing machine.

"Have a seat in this exam room, and the doctor will be in shortly."

"Thanks, Miss," Roy said.

Roy waited, entertaining himself by testing the range of motion in his hand and wrist. The two fingers that had been buddied together were quite stiff—Roy tried to make a fist, but the pinky and ring fingers stuck out like two pale twigs, not closing completely. He'd been able to wiggle his wrist a bit inside the cast, especially over the last week, so that joint and its muscles didn't feel quite as weak as the fingers. He tried some passive range of motion, using his left hand to gently curl the fingers a bit farther than they wanted to go on their own, but was careful not to push past the point of a mild stretching sensation.

Finally, he carefully felt the area of his hand bone where he knew the break had been. The edge of his hand looked straight, with perhaps a slight bulge where the fracture had been. When he pushed on that area of the bone, it felt sore, but that was it. He continued to work the pinky and its former buddy, gently bending them in towards the palm, and extending them, bending and extending. Even after just a few minutes of these exercises, his forearm muscles felt tired. He held out both forearms, hands splayed open, and noted that the right arm was visibly thinner than the left.

_Great, _he thought_. Just great. The cast is off, it feels like the bone is healed, but my hand feels like a piece of useless junk._

Roy looked up as the door swung open and Dr. Henry walked in, holding an x-ray envelope.

"Hello, Mr. DeSoto. How is that hand feeling now that the cast is off?"

"A lot less itchy," Roy said, determined to say something positive, at least to start with. "It doesn't really hurt, but, to be honest, it doesn't feel anywhere near being useful."

Dr. Henry jammed the x-rays into the light box, and looked at them carefully, with Roy peering over his shoulder.

"How's it look, Doc?" Roy asked anxiously. He certainly knew what he was seeing when he'd checked out the "before" pictures at Rampart, on the stupidest day of his life, but didn't really know what to look for in terms of healing.

Dr. Henry seemed to read his mind, and explained what he was looking at. "Here, where the fracture was—you can see how it looks thick and cloudy. That's the callous, the new bone. It looks just how it should at this point. There isn't a gap between the bones, and the bone has healed nice and straight, okay? So what I mean is, it looks just fine for this point in the healing process."

Roy's heart sank into his shoes. "This point in the healing process?" he asked, his voice a little higher than usual. "Does that mean I need a cast put back on?"

"Oh, heavens no," Dr. Henry said instantly. "Sorry if I alarmed you. No, you're done with the cast. At this point, the bone should be nearly as strong as it was before the fracture, so keeping the hand immobilized at this point would be counterproductive, for what little protection against impact the cast offers. Sure, another impact could break the bone again, but I trust that you aren't planning on doing any more punching any time soon?"

"No," Roy said, shaking his head ruefully. "I'm pretty sure I got that all out of my system, all in one go. I still can't believe I did that."

"It happens, okay?" Dr. Henry said. "I find it odd that the fracture is named a 'Boxer's fracture,' because quite frankly, I've never seen this fracture on a boxer. Only on people who've punched solid objects in a moment of anger. And occasionally in brawlers, whose solid object of choice was someone else's head."

"Well, 'Boxer's fracture' is probably a better phrase to present patients with than 'out of control idiot' fracture," Roy replied.

Dr. Henry actually giggled. "Oh, dear; I'll have to remember that one. I won't ever say it to a patient, of course, but I'll certainly think it from now on."

"Well, every profession has its things like that, doesn't it," Roy said. "Those things you think, and might say to a colleague, but you have to try not to say to the people you're serving."

"Too true, Mr. DeSoto. Too true. But back to the topic at hand, so to speak. I want you to start PT as soon as possible. If you're absolutely faithful to what the therapist prescribes, I'd expect you'll be ready to return to work in no more than two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Roy said. He suddenly wasn't sure if that felt like too long a time, or too short a time.

Dr. Henry eyed Roy seriously. "Now, last time we met, I wasn't entirely convinced that you _wanted_ to return to work. Has that changed? I'm always concerned, in situations like yours, about the entire patient—not just the body, but the mind as well, and to be honest, I was quite concerned in your particular case."

"Yeah, well, you were right to be," Roy admitted. "I was a mess—so bad of a mess I didn't even know how bad of a mess I was."

"And? I don't mean to pry, but I'm responsible for signing your return to work paperwork."

"And," Roy said heavily, "so is Dr. Pritchard, the shrink at department HQ." He still couldn't actually bring himself to say 'psychiatrist,' even though he knew that was ridiculous. "And let me tell you—if you ever need your head fixed, he's the one to go to."

"Glad to hear it. So it sounds like you've made some progress there?"

"You bet, Doc. I wouldn't say I'm completely, well, perfect, but I think I can go back to work without hurting myself or anyone else. I don't just _think_—I'm sure. And I'm looking forward to it. And two weeks—that sounds like a pretty long time right now."

"I'll tell you what—it seems to me that you're pretty highly motivated to get back to work, and I think you're the type who will follow the PT's program to the letter. Am I right?"

Roy nodded.

"I'll see you in ten days—no, wait, that would be a Sunday—so let's make it a week from Monday. If things look good then, I'll hand you your return-to-work form right then and there, and you can go back to work starting a week from Tuesday. I don't know what your shift's schedule is like, so it might end up being a day or two after that, but that's the best I can do, okay?"

"That sounds great, Doc. I appreciate it. And, I appreciate your taking care of this hand. It won't happen again."

Dr. Henry squinted at Roy. "No, I don't think it will either. See you soon," he said, as Roy left the exam room.

~!~!~!~!~

Roy stopped at the desk on his way out of the office, and made his appointment for a week from Monday. He drove the short distance from Rampart to HQ for his next session with Dr. Pritchard. His right hand felt absolutely naked. The only thing he could compare it to was one time when he'd gone on a three-week camping trip, and had come home and shaved off three weeks' worth of beard. But that naked feeling had passed quickly, and he supposed this one would as well.

It felt odd not to be the first person in Pritchard's schedule for the day, and to wait for the door to open, and for the previous client to emerge, no-eye-contact-please, into the hallway. He'd have a lot to tell Pritchard about—the unexpectedly solo meeting with Wolski, Johnny's big MVA call, and of course, the excitement of finally getting the cast off. And Roy understood, now, that it wasn't the removal of the cast itself that was significant—that would have happened in any event—but the excitement he'd felt. Until recently, Roy couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked forward to anything.

Pritchard's office door opened, and the doctor motioned for him to come in.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the castless wonder!"

"Yeah—look!" Roy flexed and extended the fingers of his right hand, which was already beginning to feel less stiff. "And Doc, you know what the best thing was?" he asked, taking his usual seat. "The best thing was, I really, really looked forward to getting rid of it."

Pritchard nodded. "That's very good, Roy. When was the last time you can remember really having positive anticipation for something?"

"I don't know—I was just thinking about that in the hallway. Probably the family vacation to the mountains, over a year ago."

"A year," said Pritchard. "That's a long time."

"It's a tenth of my daughter's life, Bill. I've spent a tenth of her life slowly spiraling into a pit."

Pritchard shook his head. "Don't fall into that trap, Roy. It's true—that happened. But you're on your way out of the pit, and you're not going back. True?"

Roy blew out a breath, and practiced wiggling his fingers again. "Yeah. You're right. I'm not going back there." He looked up at Pritchard. "But I am going back to work—Dr. Henry says he'll probably sign off for me a week from Monday."

"That's really terrific! And as I said, I'll add my signature right below his—we can do the same as today, with your appointment here right after your visit with Dr. Henry. And then, you can march right downstairs and hand that form in, and you'll be back in business. How does that feel?"

Roy thought about it for a second, so he could come up with an honest answer. "Great" wasn't exactly right—he was still nervous about his return, especially since his hand felt so stiff and weak, but he was looking forward to being back on the job, too.

"Timely," he concluded. "It feels like it's just the right time to be going back."

"I'm wondering," Dr. Pritchard inquired after a moment, "how you've left things with your partner."

Roy explained the details of his recent conversations with Johnny, and Johnny's agreement to having both Cap and Brice keep tabs on him over the next few shifts. He related the horror story of the previous day's bus versus tractor-trailer MVA, and Johnny's hard decision to leave the first vehicle he came to.

"But I'm still worried, Bill. I mean, he did what he agreed to do—he stayed out of an unsafe situation and moved on. And he didn't get hurt—not on the outside, at least. But on the inside?" Roy shook his head. "I haven't seen him since right after that accident, but lemme tell you—he looked pretty cut up."

"This was yesterday?" Dr. Pritchard asked.

"Yeah."

"So his shift would be off today."

"Yeah—he's probably asleep now—most of us guys'll sleep in till like noon after a 24-hour shift. But I have the whole day off today, so I was thinking I might go over there later, and see how he's doing."

"He's not just your partner—he's one of your closest friends, too, correct?"

Roy nodded, not entirely sure where Pritchard was going with this.

"I'm going to talk to you now about another trap I don't want you to fall into."

"All right," Roy said cautiously, still mystified.

"Don't try to fix him. Be his friend, be the best friend you can be—but don't fall into the trap of trying to be his therapist, too. I've seen it happen before—you've done so well, made so much progress, that you're going to want the same for him. You're going to want him to work out deep-seated issues you know he has, and you're going to want to try to push him into change. But don't."

"But Doc—we _talk_ about stuff. Isn't that okay?"

"Sure it's okay—it's great, in fact. It's important for people to have close friends of the same sex that they can really talk to about things, and a lot of men don't have that. But there's a difference between talking as friends, and trying to jump in and fix someone. Talk with him, listen to him—but try not to do it any differently than you ever have. Try not to think about how you and I have talked in this room—try not to think, 'What would Bill Pritchard say or do now' when you're talking with him."

Roy thought back to his recent lunch at Johnny's apartment. He'd already done it, and it had worked. He frowned. "But Doc, I think I've kind of already done that—just a little bit—and it seemed okay."

"It probably was. It probably is, once or twice. But here's the trap, Roy. He knows you're working with me, right?"

"Yeah—I mean, it's not exactly a secret. I _did_ put my fist through a wall in front of him, you know."

"And if you were to keep 'therapizing' him, for lack of a better word, he'd notice, sooner or later. He'd notice that you were talking to him differently, maybe steering him towards things in ways you've seen me steer you. And he'd figure out what you were doing, probably before you did."

Roy froze. "And man, would he ever not like it."

"Probably not. And you might not even have been aware of what you'd done to make him uncomfortable."

Roy buried his head in his hands. "Geez, I think maybe I already blew it. I mentioned you, the other day, when he and I were talking at his place over lunch, and I said something about how he'd get sick of hearing about you, since you were saving my ass."

"Here's what I'd suggest—you're of course free to share with him anything we've discussed in here—it's your business. But talk with him about it directly, in terms of yourself. Don't try to turn anything around so you're somehow 'working' with him. Have it be about you, and you only."

"But what if we're talking about his, I don't know, his problems, I guess."

"Back to the trap, Roy. Just talk and listen how you always have. You'll know when you're crossing the line, now that you know you have to look out for the line."

Roy contemplated that nugget. "Yeah. I guess that's true. But Bill—am I always going to have to think about that line?"

"I doubt it. Once we're no longer working together, you'll find you have to think about that line less and less, is my guess."

"Once I'm fixed, you mean," Roy said.

"It's not about fixing, remember? I'm not fixing you, you're not getting 'fixed.' Do you remember how I put it, back in one of our first sessions?"

"Tool box," Roy recalled. "You're helping me build a tool box so I can straighten myself out."

"Exactly. Right now, you're using those tools constantly. You'll probably always use them. But just use them on yourself, okay?"

"Got it," Roy said. "Power tools can be dangerous."

Pritchard laughed. "That's not exactly what I meant. What I meant, I suppose, was that tools are for doing work. And with your friends? You're not supposed to be doing _work_ on your friends."

Roy thought about what Pritchard had said—his description of the difference between being a friend and doing work on someone made perfect sense when he thought about it in those terms.

"I think maybe I was pretty close to crossing that line—before I even really knew it was there. But I think I get it, Bill."

"I think you do, too. And, I think I'm done with that lecture."

"I think I needed it," Roy said ruefully. "So thanks."

"You're welcome." Pritchard paused. "And now that we've gotten that out of the way, what else would you like to talk about today?"

"I have a great story to tell you about a surprise solo flight I took. You know Dr. Brackett and I were going to have a meeting with Senator Wolski yesterday?"

Pritchard nodded, and Roy launched into his story of the unexpected one-to-one meeting, his terror beforehand, and the incredible feeling of accomplishment and confidence he'd felt afterwards. Dr. Pritchard listened with interest, appreciating Roy's enthusiasm and animation. He folded his hands in his lap and smiled as Roy continued with his tale of the meeting. _This one's going to be fine._

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25.

Johnny was just finishing his lunch when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, Johnny—how's it going_?"

Johnny had to think about that for a second. "I'd say it's goin' all right, Roy. How 'bout yourself?"

"_The cast is off, and I'll be back in two weeks! Everyone who needs to sign off on my return is gonna do it, too_."

"That's great! Boy, I'll sure be glad when you're back," Johnny said. _Especially if you're the real Roy DeSoto, and not that guy who worked his shifts for the last few months_.

"_Me too, partner. And I'll tell you something—I know I haven't been the easiest to deal with for the last few months, but it'll be better. I'll be better. I can promise that now_," Roy said, as if he'd read Johnny's mind.

"Terrific! Hey—you had that meeting, right? With that senator guy? From before?"

"_I sure did—in fact, if you're not doing anything, I have the rest of the afternoon off, and I don't need to be back at the house till six or so—you wanna hit the beach or something, and I'll fill you in? I was going to the beach anyhow, so I've got all my stuff and everything._"

"Sure! I've got a date tonight, with a chick who works on the peds unit, but I'm not pickin' her up till seven, so that'd be great. You wanna swing by here, and then we'll drive out together?"

"_Sounds good—I'm at HQ, so, I dunno, is fifteen minutes too soon_?"

"It's fine—I'm not doing anything. I'll just get some shit together and I'll be ready by the time you get here."

"_Okay—see you in a bit_."

Johnny hung up the phone. He wasn't totally sure this get-together was going to be easy, or fun, but he knew it needed to happen. He felt terrible about not trying harder to get Roy to talk about why he'd been so closed off at work over the last few months. But he also recognized that Roy had been very clear, at the time, that he didn't want to talk about things. So Johnny had let it go—had let _Roy_ go. He gathered up his beach things, changed into swim trunks and a light t-shirt, and was ready when Roy arrived.

"We taking the Rover, or you wanna take my car?" Roy asked.

"Doesn't matter," said Johnny. "Why don't I drive, just in case your hand gets tired or something. That can kind of creep up on you, right when you get a cast off."

"I believe it—right now, I can't see how I'll be doing CPR in two weeks, quite frankly."

They loaded their things into the back of the white Land Rover, and headed onto the highway. They stopped once, to get some ice and soda to throw into Johnny's cooler. On the way to the coast, Roy filled Johnny in on the progress of his project, and his meeting with Senator Wolski. Johnny listened with interest, and was relieved to hear Roy talking positively about everything he'd worked on, and speaking optimistically about the chances for real change to happen.

"So it sounds like that project is pretty much done," Johnny said as they pulled into the parking lot at the beach. "What's Brackett gonna have you do for the next two weeks, till you come back to 51s?"

"Oh, there's still a couple of things to follow up on with the first project, and I also have a trip scheduled to a department up north that runs their paramedics in ambulances, just to ride along for a shift to see how that works."

"Huh. Seems like that kinda might be the wave of the future," Johnny said. "Might be good, for folks like us, too—I mean, being a rescue man is a job for young guys. And I don't know about you, but every time I get messed up on the job, it seems like it takes longer to bounce back. So just doing paramedic work, without the firefighting and rescue part? That's starting to sound pretty appealing, to be honest."

Roy's eyes boggled. "Gage The Indestructible is thinking of backing down?"

"Not _yet_, Roy—I just know it's gonna have to happen sometime. Maybe I'll last a little longer now, thanks to you, but someday, I'll have to move on."

"What do you mean, thanks to me?" Roy asked.

They set the cooler on the sand, and spread out a blanket. Roy dug and squeezed in the sand with his newly-freed hand as Johnny talked more about the green sedan from the previous day's MVA.

"And I'll tell ya, Roy, if you hadn't made me take a good, hard look at how I jump into stuff too fast, I'd probably be at Rampart now, instead of on the beach. Either in a bed, or in a drawer. Not sure which one."

Roy shook his head. "Can't say I'm sorry I missed that one. Sounds pretty grim, all around."

"That's a good word—grim."

Neither one of them said anything for a minute or two. They each popped a soda open—it was a blazing hot day.

Roy broke the silence first. "I guess I've, uh, been pretty tough to work with the last couple of months."

Johnny looked through his sunglasses out to the ocean. "I'm not gonna argue with you on that one, pal. But I keep thinkin', why didn't I really see what was goin' on? Why didn't I try harder to pull you out of your shell?"

Roy shook his head, his own mirrored lenses casting flashes of reflected sunlight from side to side. "You _did_ try. In fact, you were trying so hard it was getting downright annoying—to someone as messed up as I was at the time," he amended, as Johnny shot him a look. "But the fact is, I was so—I don't know, turned inwards, I guess, that there wasn't much of anything anyone could've done that I wouldn't have just pushed away."

Johnny didn't reply immediately. The gulls shrieks were loud and piercing during the gap in the conversation. "Ya know, Roy, I've been thinking," he said finally.

"About what?"

"About how, I dunno—it seems like you turned around awful fast. I mean, it's only been a month since you lost it in the staff lounge, and, well—I guess it kinda seems like it would be hard to be really, you know, better, in such a short time. From where you were, I mean. Not that you were totally nuts, or anything, just that you were—" Johnny paused. "I'm gonna shut up now."

Roy laughed. "No, you're absolutely right. It _is_ a short time—and I _was_ pretty depressed. And you're also right to think that I'm not totally, completely, one hundred percent back to where I'd like to be, mentally, and that's not gonna happen in the next two weeks, either."

Johnny's forehead creased over his aviator glasses. "So, how come the shrink is gonna sign you off, then? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind. Here's how I'm looking at it. A month ago, I hit bottom. It was a long, slow fall, and I didn't even realize how far I'd fallen. But, as soon as I hit? I knew I was there. And I was lucky—I had family, friends, and a really darned good shrink to help me start climbing back up. And now that I know I want to climb back up, and I know _how_ to climb, I know I can get back to the top. And Pritchard knows it, too. And you better believe it: if he thought my going back to work would put me or others in danger, he wouldn't sign off on my form. No way, no how," Roy concluded. "So it's not so much about where I am this exact moment, but what direction I'm headed in, and that I have the tools to keep going where I need to go."

Johnny's brow remained furrowed. "C'n I ask you somethin' else?"

"Fire away."

"What was it like?"

Now it was Roy's turn to frown. "What do you mean? What was _what_ like?"

Johnny didn't look away, but was grateful that he and Roy were both wearing reflective sunglasses. "Seeing that shrink. I mean, I don't think I could stand it—the poking, the prying, trying to get me to tell him about stuff that's my personal business—how did you _stand_ it?"

Roy didn't have to think hard about that. "Johnny, this guy works for the _fire department_. One hundred percent of his clients are firemen who need help with stuff inside their heads. And I don't know for sure, but I'd bet that ninety percent of his clients aren't there voluntarily. He knows perfectly well he can't go getting all touchy-feely and jump right in to the whole deep feelings and emotions stuff—that would be the perfect way to shut people down before he even got started. So sure, he asked me about things sometimes, but it was always up to me whether or not I wanted to keep going with what I was saying. And honestly, I was worried about the same things you just said—poking, prying—but it never felt that way."

"Huh," said Johnny. "I mean, so, he never, like, asked you about your childhood, or that kind of shit?"

"It came up once—but really only in a historical way. You know—about how my Dad isn't my biological father, and I never met my biological father, et cetera, et cetera. Didn't ever really feel like he was poking and prying, though. Though really, not much of what was going on with me seemed to have a lot to do with way back when. Might be different for other people. I don't know."

"Well, but, what _did_ it feel like?" Johnny asked, "if it wasn't poking and prying?"

"I think it's not so much what the _action_ was—poking, prying, pushing, any of those words—but who was _performing_ the action. I mean, it was really Pritchard telling me what I needed to get at, where I needed to look, and then it was _me_ doing the digging. Yeah—that's the right word, too—digging. I forgot about that," Roy said. He didn't mention his conversation with Stoker, because—well, that seemed quite personal. But he wished he could give Mike credit for that word, because it was really the right one. "And I was the one that was doing the digging. Not him. And by that point, I trusted him enough that he could hand me the shovel, and say 'Dig,' and I'd say, 'Okay, where?'"

"So, it wasn't like him doin' somethin' to you?" Johnny asked. "It was more like you doin' it yourself, and him helping you do it?"

"Yeah, that's exactly it. It's not like having a medical procedure done, where the doctor does it and you just have to sit back and take it," Roy said, using an analogy that he knew would strike home with a frequent and reluctant patient. "It's not like that at all—it's not passive."

"Maybe," said Johnny, "it was more like havin' a baby. The patient's the one who has to do all the work."

Roy contemplated that. "Not really," he concluded. "I mean, a lot of childbirth is involuntary. In a typical situation, the baby's gonna come out, whether the mother wants it to or not."

"Okay, so maybe not. How about this—maybe it's like PT. Sure, there's some parts of physical therapy where they manipulate you, push you around, but you can always tell 'em to quit it, and they have to if you say so. But the really hard work—gettin' better again, gettin' things movin', gettin' things strong—they can tell you what to do to get there, and how to do it, but if you don't participate, it ain't just happenin' on its own."

"I think that's a pretty good analogy, Johnny. Not perfect—because just living, existing, walking around—will get you pretty far in physical recovery. So if anything, it might be _more_ work to fix up your head than it is to strengthen a body part that's been immobilized." Roy demonstrated the stiffness and weakness of his hand as he spoke.

"Well, _that's_ certainly a process I'm familiar with," Johnny said, watching the surf. He counted waves crashing onto the beach—five, six, seven. Twelve.

"You know, I've got a lot of shit in my head," Johnny said suddenly.

To someone else, that statement might've seemed out of the blue. But Roy had been half expecting Johnny to say something like that, after all his questions about Roy's work with Dr. Pritchard. But Roy also remembered Pritchard's cautionary words about not "therapizing" his friends.

"We all do, Johnny," Roy said neutrally.

"No," Johnny shook his head. "I mean seriously _bad_ shit, Roy. Like if I don't deal with it, my life is always gonna be exactly the same as it is now. Me, in my apartment, by myself, doing a job I love—no problem, right? But then, one day, when I get too old or too beat up to do it anymore, then what? Then, I'm screwed. 'Cause much as I'd like to think there'll be jobs with just EMS work and no heavy rescue work someday, you know and I know it ain't gonna happen soon enough for us. And you—you can be okay doin' other stuff. Hell, you'll be a great captain sometime. Soon, even. But what about me?"

Roy replied carefully. "No reason why you couldn't do well on the captain's test."

"Roy," Johnny said impatiently, "you know, and I know, that's not all there is to it. We've both worked with good captains, like our Cap right now, and we've worked with shitty captains. And I can barely handle _myself_, sometimes, let alone five young hooligans."

"Twits, I think, is what we are, right?" Roy joked.

"Yeah, that's Cap's word, ain't it."

Johnny counted more waves, as Roy dug a hole in the sand, digging downwards until the hole started to fill with sea water.

"I think I'll go see him," Johnny said.

Roy knew Johnny wasn't talking about Captain Stanley. "I'm sure he'd be glad to see you. I'll give you his number, and you can make an appointment."

"Okay." Two more waves crashed onto the beach. Johnny abruptly peeled off his shirt, and tossed his sunglasses onto the blanket. "I'm goin' in."

Roy watched as Johnny ran gracefully down to the water, then slowed as the water got deeper. Roy didn't follow. The Pacific Ocean might, just _might_, be enough space for Johnny right now, he thought, as he pulled his book out of his bag and settled on his elbows to read.

**TBC**


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26.

_Three weeks later_

"I'm tellin' ya, Chet—this time it's gonna be different!" Johnny waved his fork towards Chet as he made his proclamation. "Tomorrow night—Friday—it's gonna be our third date, and—"

"Great, Gage—already two more than usual! That's a sure sign she's gonna be the one, huh? You buy the ring yet?" Chet jibed, as he passed the salad to Marco.

"Oh, ha ha. I just don't have the vibe that, you know, I'm gonna get dumped, is all. You'll see," Johnny said confidently. "Whaddaya think, Roy? Am I right? Or am I right?"

Roy shook his head. "I'm not gonna touch this one with a ten foot pole."

"We've got a couple twelve-foot pike poles on the engine," said Mike, uncharacteristically adding to the conversation. "Would that work?"

"That might be all right," said Roy. "Nice and sharp on the end, too."

"I dunno," said Chet, "the pointy part might puncture someone's fragile ego, and—"

BWAAAAAAAAM BWOOOP BWEEEEEEEEP!

"_Station 51, car over embankment, unknown injuries, Old Canyon Road one quarter mile south of intersection with Fire Tower Road; Old Canyon Road, one quarter mile south of intersection with Fire Tower Road; time out: 1821._"

Instantly, every man put on his game face, and headed to the apparatus bay. Mike started up the engine, pulling out of the bay as soon as everyone was aboard, and Roy and Johnny followed in the squad.

It was a longer drive than usual to their incident, which was all the way at the edge of their district. Everyone hoped to high heaven that there wouldn't be any fire involved; the brush in that area was likely crisp and dry, and to start with, they would only have the water that the engine carried in its tank.

Roy flexed and extended his fingers a few times as he drove. It was his third shift back on duty. His hand was feeling as good as new, but, for the first time since he'd returned to duty, they had a call that seemed like it might turn out to be something really big. On his first shift back, he'd had to do CPR, but only for about six minutes total, trading off with Johnny every two minutes as was their habit. He'd been plenty sore later, but everything had worked the way it should have. On his second shift back, they'd had to perform a trench rescue that had involved a tight squeeze—Johnny's specialty—so there was no question about who was going to do the hard work on that one.

But this incident had Roy's pulse elevated. The accident was in a remote location, and whoever called it in to dispatch obviously hadn't had a lot of information, and had probably had to travel some distance to get to a phone. By the time they would arrive at the scene, it was likely that half an hour or more could have passed since the accident happened—a long time, even if there were only minor to moderate injuries, and a potentially fatal length of time if any of the injuries were severe.

"Okay, Fire Tower Road should be coming up," said Johnny. Half a minute later, the engine pulled over ahead of them. Roy cut the engine on the squad, and he and Johnny got out.

Cap had partially sized the scene up even before he exited the engine. "We've got two cars, one up against the hillside here, and one down the embankment. Looks like we have injured people in both cars. Roy, John, I'll need one of you up here, and one down the embankment. Mike, you and Chet are on the car down the hill; Marco, you're with me on this one."

Roy and Johnny peered over the embankment to see what they could from the road. The first thing that was apparent was that the vehicle at the bottom of the hill was a station wagon. It must have flipped at least once, because the roof was caved in, but luckily, the car had come to rest in an upright position. Roy paled at the thought that a station wagon usually meant a family. The second thing that was apparent was that one of the doors was open, and that one of the occupants was sitting cross-legged a few yards from the car.

The third thing that was apparent was the pigtails on the seated victim.

Roy looked Johnny straight in the eye. "I need to take this one."

Johnny stared back, searching Roy's face for hesitancy. He found none. "All right. I'll handle things up here." He rushed over to where Cap and Marco were busy stabilizing the car that had plowed into the hillside on the other side of the road.

Chet and Mike had already set up ropes to belay Roy down to the scene below. Roy listed the equipment he'd be likely to need, holstered the Handi-Talkie, hitched the line onto the carabiner on his safety belt, and rappelled down to see what he'd find.

On his way down, Roy thought about the moment where he wasn't sure that Johnny was going to let him take the lead on this rescue. It was important that Johnny had said what he had—that Roy could take the rescue, and Johnny would back him up. But to Roy, what was more important was what Johnny hadn't said. "Are you sure?" "Is your hand going to be up to this?" "But what if—" or any of those other possible questions or statements that could throw a monkey wrench into their newly revived and still somewhat fragile trust.

He reached the bottom of the embankment, and unhooked himself from his line. He watched his step as he carefully made his way through the brush to the little girl, who was holding a doll in her arms.

"We've been waiting for you for a long time, haven't we, Dolly?" The little girl was speaking to her doll more than she seemed to be addressing Roy.

Roy checked the girl over quickly before he got closer to the car. "Are you okay, sweetie?"

"Oh, I think I have a boo-boo on my elbow. But my mommy was crying—I think she might be all better now, because she stopped. But she's stuck, and my daddy's stuck too." She looked up at him with serious blue eyes. "Our car fell right off the road, and now it's broken. I was wearing my seat belt. It held on to me really tight when our car fell down."

"Is there anyone else in the car besides your mommy and your daddy?" Roy asked.

"Nope. Just me and Dolly, and we crawled out already."

"Okay—now listen carefully, honey. I want you and Dolly to sit right over there under that big tree, away from the car, while I help your mommy and daddy get out, okay?"

"Okay, Mister Fireman." The girl wandered over to the tree and sat down.

Roy steeled himself to go look into the station wagon. It had come to rest with the hood crumpled into a large tree. Luckily, all four wheels were solidly on level ground, and the car looked and felt stable.

He approached the driver's side first. The driver was a man of about thirty—no, Roy corrected himself, as he felt for a carotid and found none—_had been_ a man of about thirty. He was tightly pinned between the steering wheel and the seat. Roy could see that his chest was caved in around the steering wheel. Blood was crusted on one corner of his mouth. Splintered ribs had torn through the side of his shirt, and copious blood from that wound had pooled on the bench seat.

"Please …" came a voice from the passenger's side of the car. "My little girl … "

Roy's head jerked up—the woman on the other side was still alive.

"Try not to move—I'm coming over to your side," Roy said.

Roy quickly went around to the passenger's side, and quickly assessed the woman's positioning and injuries.

"Ma'am, your little girl is just fine. Try not to move—can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"My arm," she said faintly.

Roy looked at her torso. Her right arm crossed her body, and obscured his vision of her left arm. There was blood all over the dashboard, all over the windshield—everywhere.

"Don't move, but just tell me what happened to your arm. I can't see it," Roy said.

"There's a bone sticking out, near my wrist, and blood was spraying everywhere. I grabbed it as hard as I could, and now it's just dripping. Oh, it hurts, it _hurts!_"

"All right, miss—don't let go. I promise, I'll take your arm in just a minute, but I need to look at the rest of you first. Are you hurt anywhere else? Neck, back, legs?"

"My left leg—I can't tell but I think it's broken, but not like my arm. Please, help me!"

"All right," Roy said. "I'm going to reach across and hold your arm now, all right? I'm going to push your seat back, and get in with you, and take your arm."

"Please … hurry … can't feel my hands …" the woman's voice was getting slurred and weak.

Roy whipped out the Handi-Talkie to call up the hill. "Engine 51, I've got one patient, with a compound fracture and arterial spurting. I need the trauma box, drug box, backboard, Stokes, O2, Biophone, and at least one more set of hands. We've also got a child, unharmed, but who needs attention."

"_Copy, Roy,_" said Cap's voice. "_Johnny's got two walking wounded he's tending to; I'll send Chet and Marco down with your equipment, and Mike will come down next to take the child up._"

"10-4." Roy placed the Handi-Talkie on the roof of the car.

"Ma'am, I'm going to move your seat back now, all right? Don' t try to help—just let me do all the work, and then I'll take care of your arm."

The woman nodded. Roy could see her skin and her lips were pale—she must have already lost a lot of blood. He reached under the seat to find the bar to move the seat back, lifted it up, and slid the seat back, all at once.

As soon as the seat moved, the woman screamed, and let go of her arm, which was now clearly in Roy's line of vision. Blood pumped feebly from around the area where both her radius and her ulna protruded through her wrist. Now that the seat was back, Roy could see the tremendous amount of blood in the passenger compartment. He couldn't tell whose it was, but if even half of it was from the woman, she was in serious trouble. He reached across her, and clamped his right hand around the middle of her forearm. The woman screamed again, and then keeled forwards onto him.

The blood that was pumping out of the wound slowed to a dribble, with Roy's hand now acting as a tourniquet around her forearm. Roy held on tightly, and used his free hand to feel the woman's legs for damage.

She was right—her left leg was also broken, but luckily, Roy couldn't feel any bones protruding through the skin.

Roy continued to hold the wrist firmly, and got an initial pulse and respiration rate. As he finished those measurements, he heard voices and crackling in the brush up the hill from the car.

"Chet? Marco? Over here," Roy said, "in the car. One of you set up the biophone, and the other one help me get her out of the car."

Roy could hear Marco setting up the biophone and calling in to Rampart, as Chet appeared with the backboard.

"Tell Rampart we have a female, approximately thirty, with greater than 1500 milliliters of blood loss due to a severed artery from a compound fracture of the left radius and ulna. She's been unconscious for about a minute. Pulse is 130, respirations 28, hold for BP," Roy told Marco.

"Chet, we've gotta get her out of here fast. Grab a tourniquet from the trauma box—yeah, that's perfect. Okay—pass it around her forearm, just above where my hand is—perfect—now pull it, more, okay, stop." Roy let go with his hand, and flexed his fingers a few times.

"All right—let's get her out. No time for a backboard. On three, you take her upper body and I'll take her legs: one, two, three!"

Roy slid the woman's lower body free of the foot well, taking care with the fractured left leg, as Chet pulled and slid her upper body out of the car. Roy slipped in the blood covering the vinyl seat. "Hold it!" he said, as he regained traction. "All right—let's get her out and onto the ground. Marco, get the O2 on her."

Chet held the woman with his elbows under her armpits and his hands locked over her chest, and lifted her out of the car, as Roy lifted her legs out of the car. They set her down on the backboard that was next to the car.

Roy grabbed his stethoscope and the BP cuff and took a reading. "95 over 65," he said to Marco, who relayed the information to Rampart.

Without waiting to hear what the physician was going to say, Roy started prepping two IVs.

Marco confirmed the orders Roy was expecting. "Roy? Rampart says two IVs of Ringer's, keep the bleeding down, and transport."

"Got it," Roy said. "Marco, why don't you head back up topside to help pull her up."

Roy's hands moved like lightning as he quickly started the first IV in the uninjured arm. He looked at the injured arm, immediately abandoned the idea of starting an IV there, and started looking at the woman's uninjured leg. It wasn't ideal, but there was no way he could use that arm, and he didn't want to have to go for a jugular stick unless he absolutely had to. He thanked his lucky stars that the woman was slim and had good veins as he started the second IV in a vein in her foot.

He took a second to breathe, and to wipe some of the blood off his hands before he grabbed the biophone.

"Rampart, IVs established. Bleeding is controlled with a tourniquet. Patient remains unconscious. I'll apply splints to the arm and the leg before moving her up the hill."

"Copy, 51," said the voice on the biophone, which Roy immediately recognized as belonging to Dr. Brackett. "Get us a new set of vitals after you have her up the hill."

"10-4," said Roy. He left the connection to Rampart open, as he quickly but carefully splinted first the arm with the open fracture, and then the leg. The woman drifted in and out of consciousness, but, fortunately, did not seem to be particularly aware of the procedures, which would have been excruciating had she been conscious and alert.

"Roy?" Mike Stoker appeared at Chet's side. "I'd like to get the little girl up top, but I don't want to get in your way."

"Yeah," said Roy, "you'll have to bring her up after we've got the Stokes up. Is she doing okay?"

Mike hesitated. "She asked about her parents. I told her we're taking care of them."

"The dad's dead, Mike, and the mom's not in good shape. So yeah, that's pretty much all we can tell a kid that age at this point," Roy said, as he and Chet secured the patient into the Stokes with ropes and strapping.

"All right," said Mike. "I'm going to take her away from where she could see her mom going up the hill in the Stokes. Give me a yell when you're done, and I'll come up with her." He had a second, smaller safety belt strapped to his own.

"All right—this is gonna be tricky," said Roy, looking up the hill. "There's no way we're gonna be able to keep her flat, but we can't afford the time it would take to call a ladder truck so she could go up horizontally. I think we ought to take her up vertical—I'll put the IVs up by her head, so they'll keep going while we're pulling her up."

Chet and Roy made quick work of tying the lines off on the Stokes. Roy radioed up to Cap that they were ready to send the patient up, and that it needed to be quick.

"_10-4, Roy—Marco and John and I will have her up in a jiffy._"

Chet manned the tag line, helping to control the angle and swing of the Stokes, as Roy packed up the equipment and got ready to return to the road above.

"Chet, send the equipment up as soon as you can, all right?"

"Got it, Roy," said Chet, not taking his eyes off the Stokes he was guiding.

Roy went to the line Mike had come down on, and started pulling himself up. The hill wasn't a sheer cliff, or he would have waited for someone to pull him up from the top, but the angle was steep enough that it was hard work climbing back up again. He reached the top, unhooked himself from his line and went straight back to his patient.

He took a second set of vitals, borrowing Johnny's stethoscope and BP cuff, and had just finished with that task as the biophone and the other equipment made it back to the road.

"Rampart, I have a second set of vitals on the patient with the blood loss and compound fracture. Pulse is 125, respirations 27, BP 95/75. Patient is in and out of consciousness, and not alert." Roy could hear an approaching siren.

"_10-4, 51. What's the ETA on your ambulance?_"

"Any second, Rampart. Our ETA to Rampart is fifteen to twenty minutes." Roy could practically hear Brackett's eyebrows knitting at that statement.

"Any idea how long it was between the accident and when you arrived?" Brackett asked.

Roy knew Brackett was concerned about blood supply to the woman's hand, in addition to the fact that with such a huge blood loss, none of her organs would be properly perfused with oxygen. "Over half an hour," he replied, "maybe more."

Brackett sighed over the biophone. "_10-4, 51. Bring her in as fast as you can. Sub in a full bag of Ringer's as needed, and apprise us of any changes en route. Also, get us a tube of blood so we can type and cross-match._"

"Copy," said Roy.

The ambulance attendants pulled the gurney up next to the Stokes, and everyone helped transfer the woman onto the gurney.

"Just the one going with us, Roy?" one of the attendants asked.

"Yeah," said Roy. "There's a kid, too, but she doesn't have a scratch on her. Seat belt success story, for sure," he said, as they worked together to lift the gurney into the rig. "And Johnny's guys are gonna have to wait for another ambulance. I can only handle this one patient right now." He climbed in the back, and Marco passed the equipment he'd need in, closed the door, and thumped it twice.

"Speaking of seat belts, make sure you guys buckle up in the front there, all right?" Roy added.

"Yeah, yeah," said the driver. "Boss has been on us about that all week. Just got a memo from the state saying it's gonna be law soon that we have to wear the seat belts, so we might's well start now."

Roy brightened a bit at hearing that—there was no way the actual law was going to change soon, but perhaps people were starting to get the message about safety in emergency vehicles.

The trip in to Rampart seemed to take ages. Roy checked the woman's vitals every few minutes, and was relieved to see a slight decrease in pulse and respiration, and a slight increase in blood pressure. He drew a tube of blood, so the lab could type and cross-match for the transfusion the woman so desperately needed. Every so often, the woman came around slightly. Once, she regained enough consciousness to speak briefly.

"Jenny?" she whimpered.

It was a common name, but still, hearing that the little girl's name was the same as his own child's gave Roy the cold chills.

"She's just fine," said Roy. "Just a scrape on her elbow, thanks to your seat-belt rule." Roy didn't say anything about her husband—the fact that she hadn't mentioned him suggested she knew he was no longer alive.

As the trip continued, Roy realized he was feeling something he hadn't felt for a long, long time. He was coming down from a huge adrenaline rush—not the kind you have when your own life is in danger, but the kind you experience when you're involved in a situation so emotionally intense that your body protects your mind by shutting it down a little bit—letting your mind do just what's needed for survival, but not letting it dwell on things that would get in your way. Roy realized it had been a long time since he'd actually had such a reaction—probably because in the months leading up to the Wall Incident, as he and Joanne had started calling it, he was so mired in depression that his mind hadn't needed to be shut down any further.

Finally, the ambulance arrived at the emergency entrance at Rampart. Roy handed Dixie the tube of blood he'd drawn to type and cross-match for a transfusion, and transferred his patient to the care of the physicians.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do with himself. He stood there in the hallway of the emergency department, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was. _Coffee_, he thought. _That'll cure what ails me._

Roy made his way to the staff lounge, and put his hand up to push the door open. He stopped, and realized he'd completely forgotten he was covered in blood. His shirt was spattered, and the knees of his pants were becoming stiff as the pools of blood he'd knelt in in the car started to clot and dry. He sighed, putting off thoughts of coffee, and headed for the staff locker room instead. He stripped off his uniform, placing it into a mesh bag to go through the hospital laundry, and showered quickly. He retrieved his spare uniform from the basket he had in the locker room, and changed into it.

All the while, he thought about the run he'd just completed. He'd done well, in a tricky situation, and he knew it. There was nothing he could think of he could've done better or faster. Johnny was faster than he was at a lot of things, but one thing Roy had always excelled at was figuring out where to put IVs when the conventional forearm or hand placement wasn't an option. And, Roy realized, this had been a rescue where his hands were crucial, and his recently injured right hand had held up remarkably. From rappelling, to using his own hand as a tourniquet, to the precision of movement needed to establish an IV in an atypical site—his hand had done everything it had needed to do, without a complaint or a twinge.

Roy exited the locker room, to try again with the coffee. On his way out, he ran into Dr. Brackett.

"How is she?" Roy asked.

"We're transfusing her now," Brackett said, "and the surgeons are looking at her arm and hand."

Roy's heart sank. "Do they think she'll lose the hand?" Roy knew it was a tricky situation—the tourniquet had been necessary to control the potentially fatal bleeding, but her hand had gone about an hour without good blood supply.

"They're not sure yet," Brackett admitted. "One question we all have, though, is why she didn't bleed out in the half-hour it took between when the accident was and when you arrived. That's a bit of a mystery."

Roy shook his head in amazement. "You wouldn't believe it, Doc. She was squeezing her own forearm the whole time. She could tell she was bleeding to death, I think—and I'm pretty sure she knew her husband was dead. I'd be willing to bet the only way she managed that was because she knew her daughter would be an orphan if she didn't stop the bleeding."

Brackett's eyes widened. "Well, she certainly saved her own life, that's for sure. And you did an excellent job as well—the only other place that second IV could've gone was the jugular, which also would've been tricky. I don't know if you saw, but the bruising from her seat belt was pretty severe—the belt hit high on her shoulder, right up near her neck, and she's got a huge hematoma at the junction of her neck and shoulder. So the foot was the absolute best choice—good going."

"Thanks, Doc," said Roy. "Well—keep me posted, if you can. I'd love to know how she does."

"From what you just said, Roy, I'll bet no matter what happens, she'll do fine. That's one heck of a strong lady."

Roy silently agreed, as he made his way to the lounge for a cup of coffee. The lounge was empty, which was a bit unusual for that time of day. He grabbed a mug from the supply of communal cups in the cabinet, and filled it with the burnt-smelling brew from the aluminum urn. He added sugar and creamer to make the stale brew palatable, and sat down to drink it.

From his spot on the ugly Naugahyde couch, Roy had a perfect view of the bulletin board by the door. About two weeks ago, maintenance had finally gotten around to repairing the hole Roy had punched in the sheetrock. Now, the patched area was freshly painted, and there was no sign of the violence he'd perpetrated on the wall.

Roy looked at his hand—there might still be a slight swelling of bone callus near the knuckle of his pinky finger, but nothing a casual observer would ever notice. But he knew that wasn't the important change—bones heal faster than psyches, he knew, and the orthopedist had assured him that the bone would be stronger in the broken place than it had been before. So Roy indulged himself with a bout of introspection, and looked at his psyche as well.

Was it broken? It _had_ been, that was for sure. But, just like the hand bone, it seemed that the place where it was broken was stronger than it had been before. He'd seen death today—the death of a young father—and it hadn't stopped him from doing what he'd needed to do to save the mother. He'd seen a child in distress—a child who was too young to understand the situation, but was still keenly aware that something terrible had happened—and he'd been able to set her aside gently to do what he needed to do, and allow someone else to handle her with care.

So like the hand bone, and like the wall, a casual observer would never know, looking at him today, how broken Roy had been just a few months ago. And for the first time since returning to work a few shifts ago, Roy was sure: he was sure he loved his job, and didn't want to give it up quite yet. He was sure he had what it took to keep going, to flex instead of snapping, when things got tough. And he was pretty sure, that once he needed to move on from being a paramedic, that he had what it would take to be an excellent captain—one who could command incidents, make decisions, and bear the burden of responsibility for his men.

As Roy was staring at the freshly painted wall, the door next to it swung open, and Johnny came through.

"Hey, there you are," he said. "Boy, you sure look a lot better."

Roy knew Johnny meant he looked better with the blood washed away and with a fresh uniform on. But Roy couldn't help thinking about the last time they were in this lounge together.

"Yeah, Junior. I'm better. Good as new. C'mon—let's get back to work." And without a glance at the place where there used to be a hole in the wall, and without a second look at his hand, or into his head, Roy followed his partner back out to the squad.

THE END


End file.
